A few summers ago, we were juggling at a VBS picnic in northern Maine. Our youngest daughter, Rose, was probably five or six years old. It was as if it were the first time she realized that other people thought juggling was a pretty special thing. Until then, it was something she assumed all fathers did out in the backyard as her father does, but suddenly she noticed how many kids and adults were laughing, applauding and excited about flaming torches, machetes and the like flying through the air. Above all the noise of a church picnic, I began to hear her voice, "That's my dad! That's my dad!" She wanted everyone there to know that she was related to the guy who was drawing so much attention.

Tonight as I watch yet another Maine storm drop tremendous amounts of snow into our yard, I marvel at the beauty and magnitude of God's handiwork. I want to shout to the world, "That's my Dad. That's my Dad! Isn't He cool! Look what He can do! You can watch what He's able to do, but I KNOW Him. It's my Dad doing that!" I'm a child of the Creator of all. Now that's grace.