White Flags of Mercy

I loaded the clip as my hands quickly lost feeling. The rounds of .45 were slowly loaded by my frozen fingers. Finally, I racked the slide to load the first round into the chamber. I had never failed to brace myself before using a firearm. After all, the weapon which I held could take someone's life. My heart skipped a beat as my conscience related the weapon in my hand to the sin which I would not let go. It was deadly.

The time of shooting various firearms passed and the time for my brother to arrive home from South Carolina finally arrived. I waited for him in the car. Yet, as I saw him walk towards me I no longer cared that the car was running and that leaving it would not be the wisest decision. I flung open my door and ran as fast as my long skirt and boots would allow. My best friend was home.

He wasted no time in recognizing what I was struggling with. We talked about it and I finally reached a point in the conversation where I was being honest instead of justifying and brushing it off. He rebuked me sharply and then hugged me as I laid there, recognizing my failure and feeling unworthy to even pray.

Sunday morning arrived and I sat in church listening to the sermon. I had predicted the night before that Pastor's sermon would be regarding judgment, repentance, and holy living. Yet, I was wrong. He spoke about mercy. Somehow that crushed me further. Why has God been so gracious to me? I saw Christ serving me. Me: a strong willed, self righteous, utterly wicked sinner. I kept uttering “thank you” as I prayed silently. Yet, I found myself frustrated in attempting to express my gratitude with mere words.

At the sermon's end pastor read the following story, which I relate in a paraphrase:

I sat there writing a short letter. Yet, it took me the entire day. I thought back in time to when I was a boy, living in the small brick house. I had learned to ride my bike on those streets. I had been raised by loving parents in that home. Why I had left . . . I still shudder to think that I had. I had run off to enjoy a life of fun and unholy living. When I found myself on foreign land and in a jail cell, it was then that I thought back to that little brick house so frequently. It was then that I decided that when I was let go, I would go home. That is, if they would have me. That brought me to the old oak tree, writing the short letter. I stated the following, "I keep remembering you. I want to see you both. If you do not wish to see me, I understand. If I am welcome, hang a white handkerchief outside of my bedroom window. Then I will know."

I rounded the corner to the old brick house. I closed my eyes. Finally, I willed myself to open them. What I saw brought tears to my eyes that quickly streamed my face. For there was no handkerchief outside of my window. There were white flags, white sheets, and white handkerchiefs hung out of all of the windows and throughout the entire house. The white flags of mercy crushed my heart and tears of gratitude poured down my face.

The book of James declares, "Mercy triumphs over judgment." And so I see that it does. For, His mercy has humbled me.