I stand, leaned against the counter tops in the kitchen, and read my Bible as I wait for the coffee maker to emit that last large sputter signaling its finish.
I slide my finger along the smooth edges of my Nook, as I read the beautiful poetry of David, in digital form. I marvel time and again how talented and committed he was to God… to my God.
So peacefully he wrote.
The coffee maker hiccups loudly, and I relish the thought of a mug steaming in my hand. Not taking my eyes off the Psalms, I reach cautiously into the cupboard above my head, groping for the cool touch of my favorite mug.
An alert pops up on my Nook, notifying me of new downloaded content ready to be read.
I finish reading the Psalm and move to the headlines of our local newspaper.
The first one nearly knocks my knees out from underneath me.
Images of my mother, crying as she met my brother and I at the door. And when we asked “Why was school canceled so suddenly?” the way she couldn’t even talk, but just hugged us close. I remember moments later, kneeling by the couch as my dad, in a quiet, sober voice, prayed for those affected by this tragedy. I remember the picture of the smoke, the one said to be untouched by the photographer, that showed the image of the devil in its billowy gray clouds.
I recall my brother asking through tears, “Are we safe?”
And how my mom had said, “We have God. So yes, we’re safe.”
But the thing that stands out the most was the amount of hatred my little 11 year old heart could harbor for this man with the name I couldn’t pronounce or remember.
In my mind, he was the devil. But more real because I could see pictures of him; pictures with unforgiving eyes and a wild beard. And I wondered with a beard his size, how long he could be in the lake of fire without it burning off.
Over the past ten years, this hatred was released. It may have had something to do with time, but now as I look back, I realize it had more to do with God.
And the realization of God’s plan of salvation.
So as I stand here, with coffee growing cold in my hand, reading the news of Osama’s death, I wish nothing more than to know that he too, came in touch with God’s truly amazing grace. I wonder if the bullet that ripped through his skull took his life instantly, or if he had time to cry out to God for forgiveness.
Undeserving of God’s grace.
Yes, Osama was all of these.
But so am I.
Because the nails weren’t what held my Savior to the cross.
It was people like me… and you… and Osama.