Last night at church, our minster shared a story of a woman whose husband and son had been brutally murdered. She met the killer and was asked to say something. She said that she forgave the man and wanted him to spend two days a month with her so that she could be a mother to him, and that she wanted to embrace him so show that he really was forgiven. He passed out before she got the chance.

I’ve heard this story before, but it still shocked me into stillness for a moment. And I wondered, why do stories like these affect me more than God’s own forgiveness of me, and many, and our sins? I think I need to soberly reflect on God’s grace and pray that I would feel the weight of what he’s done for me in the sacrifice of his Son.


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