“A man who refuses to admit his mistakes can never be successful. But if he confesses and forsakes them, he gets another chance.” (Proverbs 28:13 TLB)
I closed the shop door where my husband keeps his tools. Reaching for the latch, I froze. There, peeping over the top of the metal hinge, sat a tiny frog. I hardly saw him because of his mottled skin. Against the weathered wood and metal, he blended in. How did he get there, three feet off the ground? He couldn’t have come from a tree or shrub—there weren’t any. Impossible! I leaned close and he dropped into the crevice, his eyes peering up at me. Little frog, I thought, you’re not safe in there. You could get crushed. Come on out, little frog.
But thinking he was safe, he hid.
I began thinking about hiding and how it’s woven into our story as human beings. It mars our earliest encounters with God. “Where are you?” God asked Adam and Eve. They hid among the trees. I’ve been in plenty of forests, and they offer good cover. Can you see this man and woman crouched behind a tree, trying to not tear hastily sewn leaves?
We’re a mystery, aren’t we? We hide things we don’t want others to discover; we hide things we feel badly about.
Take that stein, for example, that I’ve been hiding in the back of a kitchen cabinet for nearly a year. I can’t bring myself to tell my husband I broke his college mug. I somehow knocked it over when dusting the bookshelf. My heart sank as I gawked at big chunks of porcelain at my feet. How did that happen? How could I have been so careless? Here is one more example of being in a hurry and breaking something! What is wrong with me?
I picked up the pieces and cobbled them together, then put the evidence out of sight. I’ll find a replacement, I thought, and then I’ll tell him. But a few days became a few weeks, and weeks became months. It never occurred to me that it would be so hard to replace. I figured it was a standard item, something you could always find in the college bookstore. Or certainly on eBay.
I delayed telling him. Not because I feared he would scold me or think less of me—he’s a kind and patient man. The delay was about me. I have a track record of breaking things, and I couldn’t face what this said about me.
Like the little frog, I dropped down into the crevice to hide, hoping reality would go away. Like Eve in the forest, I kept out of sight.
When a friend asked for prayer about bad news she had to give her mother—she had lost a piece of family jewelry—my conscience burned. I saw myself in her struggle. She felt dismayed by her carelessness. Not sure how it happened. Grieved that she lost something irreplaceable. Shame for what this said about her.
God provided the time and opportunity for her to share the news. What a relief! Her mother responded graciously, and her conscience was cleared.
It was time for my own confession, to come clean. My friend’s courage gave me the impetus I needed.
“I want to show you something,” I said one night. I led my husband to the kitchen and opened a cabinet, pushing aside a grater. “Look at what I did. I’m so sorry.” I suddenly began to cry. “I broke it a year ago.”
The expression on his face was something between surprised and amused. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he said, taking me in his arms. “Ellie, it’s just a thing. I would never be upset with you for this.”
At first I cried because I felt so terrible. Then I cried out of relief; I’d finally admitted what I’d done.
Not everyone shows grace when we admit our mistakes, but those who do touch us deeply. Instead of judged, we feel forgiven. Instead of looked down on, we feel received. Instead of cornered, we feel liberated.
Our Heavenly Father is a liberator. He is merciful and patient. The God of Adam and Eve is our God. When we hide in the woods, He calls us. When we drop into crevices, He waits. He knows it’s going to get uncomfortable in there. Soon, we’ll want to be free.
I left the shop for a while, hoping the frog would feel safe and come out. As long as I loomed over him, he didn’t move. Later I went back to check, and he was gone. I pushed the latch flush against the frame and set the lock. It was a beautiful fall day with a blue sky, dry leaves falling from tall poplars, purple cabbage leaves bright in the planters. Smiling, I headed back to the house. My little friend had found his freedom.
Heavenly Father, thank you that you are merciful and kind. Thank you for your immeasurable patience towards me. Thank you for faithfully forgiving me every time I come to your throne and admit I’ve been wrong. Thank you that you restore my spirit, you clean me up, and you give me the desire to live a pure life.
Thank you, Lord Jesus, for bearing the shame of my mistakes on the cross. It’s an emotion unworthy of your pure character and glory. I cringe to think of what you went through on my account. You took my sentence of death. You did not run from a single second of what I had coming to me. Help me to never, ever, ever take that for granted! You went to the grave—my grave—in order to make things right. You dropped into hell’s crevice; you took my sin with you.
Lord, there is not one thing I can change about my past. It is what it is. You know everything about it. But my future is full of possibility, of growing in grace and love. Help me to keep closing the gap between who I am and who I’m becoming as a member of your household. Help me to find courage to confess my mistakes. Remind me to follow Paul’s example—he always took pains to have a clear conscience toward God and man. Help me to take pains.
I don’t want to be the kind of person who makes it difficult for others to say they’ve been wrong. Give me a sense of humor, of humility. Grant me warmth. When I’m self-righteous and prideful, help me to see it and repent.
Stretch out my patience so I’ll give people time when they drop into a crevice. Love is patient; love is kind. Open my eyes to see my own weaknesses when I see theirs. Grant me faith to trust You for outcomes, both for myself and others.
For your glory!
Amen.