The other night, my youngest—ten years old and full of the kinds of questions that adults are often too afraid to ask—sat across from me, eyebrows furrowed, heart heavy, mind racing.
He was trying to make sense of God, grace, faith, and—of all things—hell. You know, just your average bedtime conversation.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Why would God say, ‘Love me or go to hell’? That feels like being held hostage.”
I stumbled through a few too-polished answers, the kind I’ve given in church settings before, and watched them fall flat like a soggy tissue in a storm. He wasn’t looking for theology; he was looking for truth that made sense in the real world—his world. One with struggle, pain, and questions that don’t always fit on a felt board in Sunday school.
So I paused, breathed, and then I said this:
“Buddy, you’re already in the ocean. You’re already drowning. That’s not something God did to you—it’s something all of us were born into. The brokenness of this world, our own choices, the stuff passed down from people before us. It’s like being dropped in the middle of the sea.”
He nodded slowly. Still skeptical. Still wet.
“But grace? Grace is the life raft. It’s not a threat. It’s a rescue. God isn’t yelling from the boat saying, ‘Love me or else.’ He’s throwing you a lifeline and saying, ‘Let me love you while you’re still drowning. Let me pull you in if you want it.’”
That seemed to land. Not perfectly, but enough. Enough to keep talking. Enough to keep trusting.
But here’s the part I didn’t say out loud at that moment—and maybe you need to hear it, too.
When you finally grab onto that raft—when you finally say, “Yes, I need saving”—you’re not suddenly dry. You don’t suddenly become the picture of put-together peace. You’re still soaked. Still shaking. Still gasping for breath. Still dealing with the water you swallowed and the people you may have knocked under trying to keep yourself afloat.
Grace doesn’t undo the ocean.Grace doesn’t erase the pain.Grace doesn’t remove the ripple effects of your choices or mine.
And yet…
Grace is enough.
Enough to save.Enough to start again.Enough to say, “Even though you’re soaked and exhausted and unsure what’s next, you’re no longer alone in the water.”
See, sometimes we think that if we’re still facing consequences, we must not have received grace. Or maybe that grace is just for others, not for us, because the mess we made was bigger, louder, more complicated.
But grace doesn’t prevent the storm—it meets us in it.It doesn’t eliminate the damage—it gives us the strength to start repairing.
And here’s where it gets really hard: those repairs often take us right back through the places of shame. The relationships we damaged. The moments we’d rather forget. The people we pulled down while we were flailing.
Not to punish us.
But to heal us.
Because grace doesn’t excuse harm—it empowers restoration. Not as penance. But as purpose.
I think about the times in my life when I was finally pulled onto that raft. When I stopped trying to swim on my own. When I realized I was already drowning.
Even then—especially then—there were people I’d hurt. Wounds I’d caused. Regrets I couldn’t take back.
Grace didn’t take those away.But grace gave me the space to face them without fear.To apologize.To rebuild.To weep and walk and make things right when I could—and grieve when I couldn’t.
That’s the kind of grace that changes you. Not because it demands shame, but because it invites honesty. And honesty, my friend, will always take you deeper than denial ever could.
So maybe today you’re soaked. Exhausted. Embarrassed. Maybe you’ve caused pain—real pain—and you don’t know what to do next.
Grab the raft.
Let grace hold you.
And then… from that safe, rescued, undeserved place… start the work of repair. Not because God needs more from you. But because love does. Because healing does. Because the people you’ve hurt (and the person you’ve been) deserve to see what redemption really looks like.
So no, grace isn’t a magic towel that dries everything up instantly.
But it is a life raft.And it is enough.And you’re not too far gone to climb aboard.
Not now.
Not ever.