I’d forgotten I set the computer power cord on top of my car until I saw the cord fly away on the side of the road. A jail crew was working–picking up trash and weeding.
I pulled over anyway. And a man came to help–his black and white jumpsuit dragged the pollen-yellowed ground. Beaded sweat and missing teeth did not distract from the prisoner’s beautiful eyes. Noticing the “Dylan Saved My Life” sticker on the back of my car, he pointed to it and said, ” Bob or Thomas–which one saved your life?”
I don’t know why I would have been surprised to think he knew about Bob Dylan or Dylan Thomas, but I was. I’m wondering what that says about myself.
I pointed to the cross tattoo on his neck.
“Jesus actually. And grace. Maybe I need another sticker?”
He rubbed the tattoo like he just remembered it was there. “Ma’am, I don’t know nothing ’bout no grace.”
The cross on his neck paved a way. And I prayed the blue-black ink would seep deep into his jugular and straight into his pulsing, precious heart. Five minutes of power cord searching was just enough time to speak grace in tangible, intentional words.
Grace: it’s hope for the wounded.
Healing for the broken. Enough for the searcher.
It’s Freedom for those chained and held captive by all things done and left undone.
Whenever. Whoever. However.
It’s always enough.
Heather Cody loves Jesus, people, and especially Bob Dylan. She’s a nurse who lives in
Georgia with her husband, two sons, and a voraciously hungry dog, Harry.