Following the usual bits of information etched on my future gravestone, I want these words: Mercy triumphs!
The whole verse says, “Mercy triumphs over judgment,” but for an epitaph, the first two words are more than enough, and the exclamation point confirms it.
Years ago, I told my family this idea for my burial marker, but when the time comes, will they remember? I suppose it’d be a good plan to have that simple sentence tattooed on the side of my forearm in a delicate, scrawling font. And maybe living with it would remind me too of the mercy that chased me down, catching me at last and changing everything.
But I guess I don’t need the mark on my skin to show the mark on my life.
If spiritual gift surveys are accurate, they point to mercy as one of my strengths. Truth be told, in spite of the difficulties of this gifting, I’ve gathered a little pride around it—until recently.
Darkness rubs up against light these days, and I’ll admit I don’t have the tolerance for it. I’ve always believed redemption is possible for everyone—no matter what—but these days, I clench my teeth while reading about what’s up in the world. And I find myself certain the cosmos would be a better place without particular people in it.
Where did my mercy go?
In the past week, thirteen faces gaze back at me from online news sites. They look resolute, those young heroic ones, but they were exploded into eternity, and I’m queasy hearing people say they gave their lives in vain. Now word of a “Kill List” drifting into the wrong hands emerges, plunging innocent Afghanis and Americans over there into The Valley of the Shadow of Death.
But it’s not just over there. Give evil an inch anywhere, and instead of it taking a mile, it takes lives, and not even all the blood in the world is enough to satisfy it; its ground knows no saturation point for this kind of spilling. And so instead of mercy for all, I want mercy for only some.
I walk 10,000 steps a day, and it used to be I happened to pray while I walked. These days, no. Now I happen to walk while I pray. I do it out loud too, if Husband logs his steps with me, because the power in the spoken word—and someone standing in agreement with it—reverberates throughout the unshakable realm. I won’t stop this practice, but I do wonder what drivers who roll by us think when they see me crying.
If there’s a moral to this story, is it that prayer changes things, and at the same time, me? Is it that it’s good I’m not God because I would coordinate far too many smackdowns per day? Or is it that no matter how things look to me, mercy still triumphs?
Yeah, I see it now. It’s for sure that last one.
*****
The day after I posted last week’s blog installment with my readers’ fair stories, this reader sent her delightful memories. Maybe with all my above talk about judgment and smackdowns, this is a sweeter way to end this week. Enjoy the following submission!
Being from a single parent family we didn't have extra money for frivolities like fairs, but I was able to earn my way to a trip a few times, as a 4-H'er. Having won first place at the local county fair, one was awarded a several day stay at the State Fair, in the 4-H dorms atop the 4H building, and a chance to compete with other county 4Hproject winners from around the state. Being that I was a "city kid" (from the big city of Austin, Minnesota) I didn't have any livestock to show, so I usually did Creative Arts projects. One year I did a veterinary science project on an orphaned squirrel I had found and raised (poster demo only, Claude the squirrel not included). 4H kids were also expected to work while there, having duties tidying up the building or being assigned to peel potatoes for the dormitory meals. Rebel that I was, I ditched potato peeling duty at least once every time I was at the fair, and snuck out, (which was also forbidden... I bet you didn't know I was such a deviant!) crossing Snelling to go....to chat with & get a knish made by the darling old folks at the Shalom Home! There you have it, my full confession!
Carissa, Robbinsdale, Minnesota
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.