Grace in the Weary Places

A Reflection on Parenting, Forgiveness, and the Heart of God

Years ago, in a very low point in my emotional and spiritual well-being, I sat in a therapist’s office—drained, unsure of myself, unsure of my vocation, and frankly unsure of the future.  It was a stormy season: the end of a painful marriage, questions about the viability of my priesthood, and a thick cloud of self-doubt hanging over it all.  Somewhere in the middle of that bleakness—two weeks into Lent, no less—my therapist looked at me with clear-eyed compassion and said something I’ll never forget:

“Ben, I bet you preach Good Friday differently this year.”

She was right.

Because it’s easy to talk about grace when you’re standing in the sunshine. It’s another thing altogether to cling to grace like a life ring when the waves are crashing and you don’t know which way is up.  That year, and many moments since, I’ve realized: grace isn’t an idea.  It’s a survival strategy. It’s not an abstraction or a doctrine or a bullet point in a seminary lecture.  It is the tender, undeserved love of God that meets us not just when we are doing fine—but especially when we are not. It is irreplaceable.

And yet, even with that experience, even with years of preaching and praying about grace, nothing has shown me the true depth of God’s mercy more than becoming a father.

Many of you know that I love being a dad (or “bah-bah”, as one of my kids calls me).  It is the most important part of my life.  And when Mallory and I married two years ago, alongside the resurrection of life I felt in marrying this utterly amazing, brilliant, and endlessly graceful lady who was joining into holy covenant with me, I went from being a dad with one kid to a dad of five.  Five!  What amazed me more than anything else was how quickly and deeply my love expanded.  I didn’t have to redistribute it.  It wasn’t like slicing up a pie and giving smaller pieces to make it work.  My heart just grew.  The love stretched wider and deeper than I thought possible.  Each of my children—Marshall, Jeremiah, Layla, Jeff, and Judah—is wildly different. But my concern for each, my compassion for each, my willingness to love, teach, forgive and guide--that’s the same.  Boundless.  Constant. Unconditional.

And it’s made me understand, in a visceral way, the nature of God’s love differently.

When one of the kids falls short—and they all do—there is no hesitation in me about showing them love.  Even when I’m frustrated or exhausted or worn thin, I can’t stop being their parent.  When one of them says, “I’m sorry,” my heart melts.  When one of them doesn’t say it, but clearly needs forgiveness anyway, I offer it just the same.  When they’re confused or broken or angry or loud (and Lord, are they loud!), what I see more than anything else is a soul in need of grace.  And I give it.  Not because they’ve earned it.  But because they’re mine.

And I think that’s how God sees us.

Becoming a parent has changed how I read the Lord’s Prayer.  Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us. That isn’t a barter or a plea—it’s a revelation.  The more I understand my own need for mercy, the more compelled I am to offer it to others in need alongside me.  When I see my own brokenness reflected in the eyes of my children—who push limits, test boundaries, get impatient, and yet are full of wonder and goodness—I remember what it means to be loved by a God who Fathers me the same way.

Grace and forgiveness are not just theological tools in my pastoral kit.  They are now daily realities, often learned in the chaos of cereal bowls left to dry out in the sink and noisy carpools across the country to school and bedtime routines that seem anything but orderly.  They are glimpsed in the fragile courage of a child saying, “I’m sorry,” and in the father (me) who still needs to do the same.

Parenting has deepened my prayers.  It has transformed my preaching.  It has made me gentler. It has made me more honest.  And above all, it has helped me understand that we are not saved by getting it all right—we are saved by the love of a Father who keeps showing up, who keeps forgiving, who keeps calling us his own.

Grace isn’t just for the pulpit or the prayer book.  It’s for the messy kitchen table. It’s for the parent who loses their temper.  It’s for the child who doesn’t yet know how to say what hurts.  It’s for the tired couple figuring it out one day at a time. Together.

And I think—I know—that’s how God sees us.
His beloved.
Still learning.
Still worth it.
Still held.

Pax et Bonum!

Fr. Ben +