Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

Four Feet Off the Ground

My first summer job as a teenager was as a gymnastics coach at the YMCA. I was in charge of the Beginners class, which ranged from four-year-olds in pint-sized leotards to junior high girls who had watched the Summer Olympics and been inspired by the likes of Shannon Miller and Kerri Strug.

Invariably the girls were enamored with the tumbling mats and the uneven bars. They loved somersaulting and cartwheeling to their hearts’ content, and they delighted in swinging on the bars. But there was a consistent nemesis for these budding gymnasts: the balance beam.

I couldn’t blame them. Here they were supposed to walk on a four-inch slab of wood four feet off the ground—and most of their heads didn’t even reach the top of the beam! But the fact remained: if they were going to pass the class and advance to the next level, they’d have to make it from one end of the beam to the other. All by themselves.

I’ll never forget the five-year-old twins in my class: tow-headed girls named Zoe and Chloe. Chloe had successfully completed each requisite for the class and had her certificate proudly in hand, marking her promotion to Advanced Beginners. But her blue eyes got big when a realization struck: her sister hadn’t walked the beam yet.

My progression for teaching this particular skill went like this: first, I’d have the girls walk on a line on the floor to show them that four inches was wider than they thought. Then when each girl got up on the beam, I’d keep pace alongside her, holding her hand each step of the way. When I was confident the gymnast was ready, I’d send her on her first solo attempt.

Zoe had the skills to conquer the balance beam, and she knew exactly what she needed to do. But she was facing an obstacle more daunting than the four-foot apparatus in front of her: a mental one. As soon as I’d let go of her hand, she’d look at the ground below, and all she could think about was how far she had to fall. But here’s the thing about walking four feet above the ground: if you want to make it to your destination, you have to keep your eyes up. Otherwise you’ll lose balance, perspective. And that’s when you’re destined to fall.

Reading the account of David’s affair with Bathsheba is a bit like watching those Olympic gymnasts on the balance beam. You hold your breath, knowing a misstep could result in the catastrophic loss of everything they’d worked so hard to achieve.

Perhaps the worst part about David’s story is how oblivious he was to his fall at first. Despite his status as a man after God’s own heart, he didn’t confess straight away—not after Bathsheba turned up pregnant, not after he received word that Uriah had been killed on the front lines of battle. It wasn’t until the prophet Nathan confronted him, boldly calling him on his sin (2 Samuel 12), that he finally broke down and repented.

His heartbreaking cry for mercy is recorded in Psalm 51:

Have mercy on me, O God,
because of your unfailing love.
Because of your great compassion,
blot out the stain of my sins.
Wash me clean from my guilt.
Purify me from my sin.
—Psalm 51:1-2

As humans we have a tendency to embrace a cheap imitation of grace, interpreting it as an excuse to brush off sin or downplay its consequences. But Scripture presents a clear pattern: repentance and godly sorrow first, then mercy.

On the last day of the gymnastics class, I looked at Zoe. “Okay, kiddo,” I said. “Today is your day.”

She got onto the beam, her little knees knocking. Then, instead of standing beside her, I went to the far end of the balance beam. “Keep your head up,” I told her. “Just look at me.” Step by step she inched forward, her eyes never leaving mine.

There are times we need friends who will walk beside us and urge us along. But there are other times we need a coach who will boldly tell us to lift our eyes off the ground so we can walk the straight and narrow. Sometimes the most grace-invoking thing a friend can do is confront us.

In this precarious walk called life, we all need a Nathan.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

 

My Tangled Mess

When I was in junior high my family adopted the most adorable yellow lab puppy named Molly. Her only downside (aside from her propensity to steal the sponge off the counter and incite a chase) was her aggravating habit of getting herself tangled into a royal mess when we tied her up to go outside. She was still small enough to slide through the slats of the porch railing, but she failed to recognize the ramifications of such a pastime when tethered.

Inevitably Molly would weave back and forth through the railing slats, blissfully going her own way…until the moment she literally got to the end of her rope. At that point she’d let out the most pitiful whimper you’ve ever heard, begging us to rescue her. We did, all the while admonishing her about common sense and how to avoid such entanglements in the future.

But day after day it was the same: She’d get stuck. She’d whine for help. Ad we’d rescue her. And then the cycle would start all over again the next time we let her out.

As I read the book of Judges, I feel like I’m stuck in a similar cycle. The same pattern repeats itself time after time, for 21 chapters. The people go their own way, utterly forgetting about God. When things get bad enough, they finally call out to him for help. Yet over and over again, God shows them underserved kindness and rescues them. Then as soon as things are going well, they turn their backs on God and do their own thing again.

Whenever the LORD raised up a judge over Israel, he was with that judge and rescued the people from their enemies throughout the judge’s lifetime. For the LORD took pity on his people, who were burdened by oppression and suffering. But when the judge died, the people returned to their corrupt ways, behaving worse than those who had lived before them.
—Judges 2:18-19

As much as I’d like to think such cyclical problems are reserved for ancient people and puppies, I have to admit I’m the same way. I have a tendency to go my own way, and it’s only when I’ve run out of other options that I’m desperate enough to cry out to God.

Eventually Molly grew out of her rope-tangling habits, if only because she was too big to fit through the railing slats any longer. I hope that I’ll grow up eventually too—that one day I’ll be mature enough to walk consistently with him instead of putting myself through cycle after tireless cycle.

But for now, I stand amazed at his endless patience and grace.

Thank you, God, for unraveling me and my tangled mess. And thank you for doing it over and over again.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

My Own Scarlet Letter

Don’t tell my high school literature teacher, but I’ve always thought Nathaniel Hawthorne was a little over the top when it came to symbolism. Come on, Nate, a bright red letter A over Hester’s heart? Did we really need the literary two-by-four?

But then, several years ago, I found myself in a well-to-do church in Bangkok, receiving scathing glares for being in the company of a couple of Hester Prynnes, and I felt the sting of the scarlet letter in a more personal way. Suddenly the big red A no longer seemed excessive.

After being on the streets of Thailand’s red-light district for a week as part of a short-term trip, our group had befriended several women who were trapped in the sex industry there. We invited Gun and Kim to attend a local church with us, and to my surprise, they agreed to meet us there on Sunday.

As a group of Westerners, we would have stood out like the proverbial bull in the china shop anyway. (As hard as we tried to keep our voices down, we couldn’t shake the “loud American” stereotype.) But when we showed up with several women from the streets, all eyes in the sanctuary turned conspicuously on us. I’m no expert on Thai etiquette, but I could tell immediately that our friends weren’t quite dressed in what the congregation would consider “Sunday’s best.”

As we got looks ranging from disgust to pity to judgment, I found myself experiencing conflicting emotions: first, a sense of indignation—an almost maternal protectiveness for these women I’d grown to love. Women who desperately needed love, acceptance, grace. But almost as quickly, to my shame, I felt a wave of defensiveness wash over me. I’m not one of them! I wanted to explain. I’m a good Christian, just like you!

I imagine the prostitute Rahab must have felt marked too when the Israelite spies were in her neighborhood, scouting out potential property for the Promised Land. She may not have had a literal letter on her clothing, but no doubt everyone knew who she was and felt no qualms about condemning her.

But here’s where Scripture surprises me. Although Rahab may have had the sketchiest reputation in town, she and her family were the only ones to be saved when the Israelite army besieged the city. The sign she was given—the mark to indicate to the soldiers that they should spare her home—was a red cord.

Here were her instructions:

You must leave this scarlet rope hanging from the window through which you let us down. And all your family members—your father, mother, brothers, and all your relatives—must be here inside the house.

—Joshua 2:18

In the span of a day, Rahab’s life was turned inside out. She went from bearing a symbol of shame to being marked with the red symbol of salvation. And that scarlet thread didn’t just spare her own family: this former prostitute was woven into the lineage of David and eventually the Messiah himself (Matthew 1:5).

Somewhere about halfway through the church service, as my mind wandered amid a sea of unfamiliar words, it hit me: I am one of “them.” I am a sinner, with a glaring red S over my heart. And I am in desperate need of grace.

There is good news for Gun and Kim, and there is good news for me. We no longer have to be defined by the scarlet mark of our sin. Because of Christ, we can hang the scarlet cord of salvation out our window, and we, too, will be saved.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

The Art of Pruning

My husband and I joke that he only moved in three things when we got married: his bike collection, his guitar collection, and his plant collection. I benefit from all three, but I’m specifically loving the plants.

Daniel is a master green thumb, especially when it comes to violets (which I have a pretty storied history of killing myself). The trick, he says, is in the pruning. At first it struck me as unnecessarily brutal to take a pair of scissors to those innocent little leaves that don’t seem to be hurting a soul. But if his flowering pots are any indication, this method seems to be working.

Yesterday I had one of those pruning conversations myself. Someone I love gently held up the mirror to me on one of those habitual sins I wasn’t even aware I’d been guilty of. And for me, those deeply entrenched lifestyle sins are way more painful to prune away than the one-time doozies. It feels more like digging up a root than trimming an errant leaf.

As much as it hurts to feel the shears, though, it’s what I want. It’s only when I let someone close enough to show me who I really am that they can help trim away the places that are quite literally sucking the life out of me.

Grace, I am learning, sometimes comes in the form of pruning shears.

He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn’t produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more.
—John 15:2

The Grace of the Tarzan Skirt

Call it shallow, call it being female, but I can’t help but notice as I read Genesis that God was the designer of the very first outfit.

Thanks to those illustrated Bible storybooks I read as a kid, I always picture Eve with a furry Tarzan look—one shoulder covered, the other bare, a tasteful belt around her waist. I just never really thought about where the outfit came from.

But this time as I read the account of Paradise Lost, something new hit my fashion sensibilities. The first line of clothing in the brand-new world, it turns out, was preceded by its first bloodshed.

Back when things were perfect, Adam and Eve were on vegetarian diet (Genesis 1:29), which meant no cows or chickens had kicked the bucket for sake of supper. And presumably, since things were perfect, no one—human or animal—had died for any other reason. But once Adam and Eve caved to temptation, God’s promise that death would ensue (Genesis 3:3) went into effect immediately.

When I think about that heart-wrenching scene when God calls the first couple on their sin, I typically think about the curse part of it: enmity with the snake, pain in childbirth, toil in labor, to every generation hence, thankyouverymuch, Eve.

But just after the curse is pronounced, there’s this little grace note I’ve overlooked in the past: “And the Lord God made clothing from animal skins for Adam and his wife” (Genesis 3:21). God gave them clothes, a covering for their nakedness and shame. But before he could do that, there had to be a sacrifice. Blood had to be shed.

And in this AD era, so it is for us. God has provided a permanent covering for our sin. But a sacrifice was necessary; bloodshed was required. And we, the guilty ones, find ourselves clothed.

When God stitches the garment, he threads his needle with grace.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.