Feelings of devastation come in so many different forms.  The first time I remember feeling “devastated” was when I was six years old.  My friend, Rochelle, was over at our house playing.  We heard the ice cream truck go by and excitedly ran to go meet it.  Unfortunately, we failed to mention to my mom that we were leaving the house.  We returned home to my very upset mother and Rochelle’s very upset father who had arrived while we were gone.  Rochelle’s dad had come to bring her things because the plan had been for her to spend the night.  After discussing amongst themselves, they decided that our punishment would be that Rochelle would not be able to spend the night.  I remember that feeling of devastation . . . that nothing would ever be right with the world again.  In my short six years, I don’t know that I had ever faced anything that seemed so impossible and I just wasn’t sure I would survive.  But I did survive.  If but for the grace of God, I survived.  When I was eleven years old, I remember that same sinking feeling when all of my friends at school got mad at me for sitting with a different group of friends at lunch.  It seemed that they all turned on me at once and I was devastated. I came home from school certain that I did not want to return the next day.  Again, I just wasn’t sure I would survive such a horrific experience.  But I did survive (and I think I might have gotten some new friends).  As I got older, that feeling returned at times but I was tougher and more experienced.  In high school it was the break-up with the first boy I ever loved.  I was devastated and just not sure I would survive.  But I did.  Then came adulthood and with it all the joys and pains of being a grown-up.  Marriages of close friends crumbling, test results coming back positive for a dreadful disease, friends leaving, churches splitting, losing people you love, and life plans not going as expected.  And with each experience, there is that familiar feeling that I just may not survive.  But I do.  Somehow, someway, I always make it through.  And a part of it is that I’m a bit older and more mature than when I was six years old.  I’ve realized that Rochelle not spending the night is not the end of the world as I thought it might be.  But the other part . . . the biggest part . . . is that it turns out that God is true to his word.  His grace is sufficient.  His grace is sufficient when you’re 6 and his grace is sufficient when you’re 33.  His grace is sufficient to carry me through the times that I’m just not sure I’ll make it.  These days I may not know much else; but I do know that.

- Rebecca