Day 135

1 Chronicles 3–4 | Acts 24 | Psalm 57

⸻

Grace is not earned. It’s extended.

It reaches further than my sin, my shame, even my silence.

It covers the messes I made when I didn’t know better.

And the ones I made when I did.

It meets me in the middle of the cave, the courtroom, the coffee shop, the consequences.

And it doesn’t flinch.

A Lineage Touched by Grace

1 Chronicles 4 is one of those chapters most people skip. I have.

Name after name. Generation after generation. Tribe after tribe. A roll call of men and women who rose and fell and failed and trusted.

And right in the middle of it, there’s a name that breaks the rhythm:

Jabez.

“His mother had named him Jabez, saying, ‘I gave birth to him in pain.’” (1 Chronicles 4:9)

His name literally means sorrow. He was marked by grief before he ever took his first step.

But then—Jabez does something bold:

He asks for grace.

“Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain.” (v. 10)

And the next words might be the quietest miracle in the Old Testament:

“And God granted his request.”

No rebuke. No hesitation. Just grace.

Because God isn’t afraid of bold prayers from broken people.

He welcomes them.

A Life Transformed by Grace

In Acts 24, Paul stands before Felix. On trial. Unjustly accused. Misunderstood.

But he doesn’t lash out.

He speaks with clarity. Conviction. Gentleness.

He shares his story.

And it’s not a flattering one.

He owns who he was—a man who persecuted the church. Imprisoned believers. Stood by as Stephen was stoned.

But grace outran his past.

And now, the very gospel he once tried to destroy is the truth he boldly defends.

Not because he deserves a platform.

But because grace gave him one.

Felix listens. He’s familiar with “the Way.” He even gets uncomfortable when Paul talks about righteousness and judgment. But instead of responding, he delays.

“Come back when it’s more convenient.” (see v. 25)

That’s the tragedy of grace: it’s extended—but not always accepted.

But Paul offers it anyway.

Because when you’ve been transformed by grace, you don’t hold it back from others.

You extend what you didn’t deserve yourself.

A Refuge in Mercy

Psalm 57 was written in a cave.

David is hiding. Hunted. Unjustly pursued by Saul. Again.

And yet he prays:

“Have mercy on me, my God, have mercy on me, for in you I take refuge.” (v. 1)

He doesn’t demand justice.

He doesn’t rant about unfairness.

He doesn’t rehearse his résumé.

He asks for mercy.

And that prayer?

It doesn’t just protect him.

It softens him.

Because grace not only restores—it reforms.

It doesn’t just wipe the slate clean—it reshapes the soul.

I’ve Been Shaped by Grace

I know what it feels like to be marked by failure.

To be the one who said what I shouldn’t have to the ones I love most.

To see the ache and anger and anguish in a brother’s eyes and know I put it there.

And still—grace meets me.

Not because I’m persuasive.

Not because I’ve made it right.

But because God delights in mercy.

And because God softens our human hearts even when they have turned to stone.

And if He’s not ashamed to keep writing my name into His story…

Then I don’t have to be afraid to ask for grace.

Even from those I’ve wronged.

Maybe they’ll hear me. Maybe they won’t.

But either way, I want to come with a heart that’s humbled—not entitled.

Honest—not defensive.

Hopeful—not demanding.

Because grace is only grace when it’s not deserved.

And if I’ve received it—I have no right to withhold it.

And all the reason to praise God for the grace upon grace upon grace He so freely gives me each day.

⸻

Lord, thank You for being a God who remembers names—even the ones marked by failure. Thank You for grace that outruns my worst decisions and my deepest regrets. Give me the humility to ask for it when I need it. And the courage to extend it when I don’t want to. Let my words be seasoned with mercy, and my heart softened by the grace I’ve received. Don’t just make me a recipient of grace—make me a vessel of it. For the ones I’ve hurt. For the ones I love. And for the ones I’m still learning how to walk with.

Amen.