I don't remember much of his hurting us; I know that he did. What I do remember are his words, cutting, hurtful words, "You are a good for nothing, worthless son," spoken often and repeatedly throughout and after the years of Momma's passing. So why do I share this story about my father? Without the contrast of knowing that he was a man of such intense rage, you will not understand the day my father taught me grace.

At the beginning of the summer in 1981, I purchased enough cocaine to use and sell and replenish my supply throughout the summer. I was addicted, not eating, quickly losing weight. At a Grateful Dead concert, I snorted 2 grams of cocaine within an hour—a lethal dose for someone my size. That night while lying on my bed, my heart leaping out of my chest, I begged God repeatedly to save me. As high as you go on cocaine, you descend equally low into severe depression after the high wears off. Near the end of the summer, paranoid, depressed, and suicidal, I was invited by a friend to join her in Scientology. After several weeks, caught in Scientology, not knowing where to turn—in desperation—I called my father in Japan, blurting out on the phone, "Dad, I just spent $1,200.00 on cocaine, and I'm in Scientology." I expected my father's rage, but completely unexpected were my father's first words to me, "Son, I'm flying home tomorrow." The next day at the airport, with my brother and sister joining me, I again expected my father to fly into a rage. He was delayed in customs for over an hour. I both dreaded and longed to see him.

Finally, he came through the doors carrying a suitcase in each hand. He caught sight of me—gaunt and skeletal at 112 pounds. He didn't say anything. He set down his bags, came over and swept me into his arms and held me, no words, no rage—just grace. That was the day my father taught me grace.

Two years would pass before my heavenly Father would reveal to me the extravagance of His grace. During the month that Dad was home staying with me in Seattle, he gave me wise counsel: "You're going to have to do two things, Grant. You're going to have to leave your friends. You're going to have to move away from this place." Unwisely, I discounted his words by responding, "No, Dad, I can be a good witness." Within two months after he left—I remember the night—we went out to the dance bars in Pioneer Square. That night I had just a couple of drinks—along with a relapse into addiction.

After a severe head injury two years later, my father invited me to live with him and Mom in Olympia. He took me to my first two AA meetings, setting aside all pride and resentment. A few years later, when Nancy and I were in our second year at seminary, in the Autumn, when leaves are preparing themselves for their descent to the earth, my father came out to visit us in Chicago. Now he was the one gaunt and skeletal, his body wracked by cancer that held him in an ever-tightening grip. I took him and Mom on a tour of the seminary. He was too weak to climb the stairs, so while Mom and I explored the upper reaches of the building, Dad sat in the chapel. He had sat in that same hallowed space so many years before when preparing for all that lay ahead. Now his life had been hallowed by the years; I wonder what he prayed. The same transforming grace that caught me in my free fall, and saved me from certain death, found my father as well, hallowing his life at the end of his years. So, here's to the man who gave me my first glimpse of grace—neither one of us ever deserving such kindness. But now he abides in grace, having long looked into its eyes—neither seeing anger nor condemnation—but only a fathomless and deep love in the eyes of Jesus.

© 2022 by Grant Christensen. "Freely you have received, freely give." (Matthew 10:8b NIV) You are free to share—copy and redistribute in any medium or format—as long as you don't change the content and don't use commercially without permission of the author or author's family.