Day 202

2 Chronicles 23–24 | Matthew 18:21–35

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A couple nights ago, Sophia and her best friend Alyse—Jason and Monica’s daughter, who’s basically part of our family—made a pizookie.

For the uninitiated: imagine a warm, gooey, pizza-sized cookie with ice cream melting down into every crack.

Glory in a skillet.

There was quite a bit of the cookie dough left in the fridge, and I’ve been rationing it like a responsible adult—which in my case means sneaking spoonfuls after the girls go to bed.

Last night, while Talacey and I were watching a show, she walked to the kitchen, pinched off a small bite, and came back.

It was maybe one spoonful.

But I made a thing of it.

In my full dramatic flair, I told her she’d eaten all of it.

That she didn’t leave me enough.

That I was the victim.

She stared at me—stone-faced, unimpressed.

Then she calmly reminded me—that was the first bite she’d had.

I was the one who had been slowly demolishing it all week.

And there it was again: I had made her the villain—when I was the one who cleared the dish.

That’s not just a dessert story.

That’s the story of our marriage.

I get tired. Frustrated. Stressed. Anxious. Depressed. Lonely. Hungry.

And I take it out on her.

The single person who is always in my corner becomes, in the moment, my target.

She’s my safest place.

But in my weakness, I make her the enemy.

And for nineteen years—and counting—

she’s forgiven me.

Again and again.

She doesn’t pretend it didn’t happen.

She doesn’t enable me.

But she absorbs the blow, tells the truth, and chooses grace.

She’s the living embodiment of the king in Jesus’ parable—the one who cancels the unpayable debt.

Who forgives the offender.

Who releases what could have been held against me.

And I don’t deserve it.

When Mercy Doesn’t Stick

Jesus tells this story in Matthew 18: A servant owes a mountain of money.

He begs for time.

The king erases the whole thing.

It’s radical. Unthinkable. Pure mercy.

But that same servant walks out and grabs someone who owes him pocket change.

Demands repayment.

Refuses forgiveness.

And so the king takes back the mercy.

Because forgiveness that doesn’t change you

never really reached you.

That line stays with me.

Because I’ve been the forgiven man

who still wants to be right.

Who still makes someone else pay.

I’ve received grace.

But I haven’t always let it remake me.

When Grace Is Forgotten

Joash did the same.

In 2 Chronicles 24, he starts well.

He rebuilds the temple.

He follows God.

He walks in truth—so long as Jehoiada the priest is there to guide him.

But when Jehoiada dies, Joash turns.

He forgets the grace that shaped his early reign.

He kills the son of the man who discipled him—Zechariah, the prophet who dared to call him back to repentance.

And so forgiveness wasn’t the final word in Joash’s life.

Judgment was.

Because grace that’s forgotten

becomes grace rejected.

And when grace is rejected, something colder always takes its place.

I Want Grace to Have the Last Word

I don’t want to be Joash.

I don’t want to be that servant.

And I don’t want to be the guy standing at the fridge, doors wide open with no light in the room but the refrigerator LEDs that pierce through the darkness of the kitchen, accusing my wife for the very thing I did myself.

I want to be changed.

I want the forgiveness I’ve received to shape how I speak, how I respond, how I repent.

I want the gospel to live in me— not just as a doctrine I defend, but as mercy I extend.

Because the debt I owed was real.

And it was paid in full.

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Lord, thank You for grace I didn’t earn and forgiveness I didn’t deserve. Thank You for Talacey, who lives out that grace in ways that humble me daily. Let the mercy I’ve received run deeper than my reactions. Remake my reflexes. And the next time I’m tempted to lash out, keep me from weaponizing cookie dough and forgetting the cross. Amen.