Duck Hunt and Claussen Pickles

As I reflect on yesterday’s sermon, one line keeps coming back to me:

Grace remembers the address.

I don’t know exactly where that line came from. Sometimes they just arrive. But it has stayed with me through the night.

And there is one address that Cyndy and I have always been fond of.

It was the address of her parents’ house in Avon, South Dakota.

When our children were young, life was busy. I was teaching and serving as a young pastor. Cyndy was carrying much of the daily work of raising children. It wasn’t that she was alone. We had family. We had friends. We had church.

But like many young parents, especially young mothers, she often felt overwhelmed.

Before the children came along, she had worked outside the home. She had colleagues, responsibilities, routines, and a sense of identity connected to her work. Then suddenly her days were filled with diapers, meals, laundry, and the endless demands of raising young children. She loved our kids deeply, but there were days when she felt isolated. Days when she missed parts of the life she had known before.

And then there was Avon.

On weekends, we would pile the kids into the car and head to Joc (Jocelyn) and Clair’s house.

The moment we arrived, something changed.

The children ran to Grandma and Grandpa. Someone else was paying attention to them. Someone else was preparing a meal. Someone else was carrying some of the weight.

For a few precious hours, we could exhale.

There was another gift hidden in those weekends.

Clair ran the local newspaper, and often Cyndy would go to work with him. It gave her a chance to reconnect with a part of herself that had gotten buried beneath diapers, schedules, and the daily demands of parenting.

And while they were at the paper, I would sit with Joc.

We would talk.

Or more accurately, she would ask questions and listen.

How was school going? How was the church? How were the kids? How was I doing?

As a young teacher and pastor, I spent much of my life listening to other people. Joc was one of the people who listened to me.

She paid attention.

She remembered.

She cared.

I remember one small detail in particular. Joc always made sure there were Claussen pickles in the refrigerator because he knew how much I liked them. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It was simply a way of saying, “We were expecting you. We’re glad you’re here.”

What I appreciate even more now is that this hospitality wasn’t effortless. Joc used a wheelchair, and having family descend on the house for the weekend required planning, preparation, and help. Hosting took energy and intention.

Looking back, I realize that the welcome we experienced was something they chose to offer, even when it wasn’t easy.

Which may be one of the truest things about grace.

Grace is rarely convenient.

It makes room anyway.

Our children had their own reasons for loving that house.

Upstairs was a Nintendo game called Duck Hunt.

Today that probably doesn’t sound like much, but in those years we didn’t have that kind of technology at home. There wasn’t much money left over for video games.

But Grandma and Grandpa had Duck Hunt.

The kids would race upstairs and spend hours taking turns, laughing, cheering each other on, and trying to beat their previous scores.

Looking back, I realize that Duck Hunt became a place of grace for them.

Not because of the game itself.

But because of what it represented.

It was a place where they felt welcome. A place where they were known. A place where they were allowed to be kids.

Grace has a funny way of attaching itself to small things.

What strikes me now is that grace looked different for each of us.

For Cyndy, it was the chance to work alongside her dad and reconnect with parts of herself she feared she was losing.

For me, it was sitting with Joc and being heard.

For the kids, it was Duck Hunt upstairs.

For all of us, it was the feeling that we belonged.

These days our house is full again.

Wes and Madison are living with us for a season, along with Stella and Sora. There are bottles on the counter, diapers in the trash, interrupted nights, and all the beautiful chaos that comes with newborn twins.

The other day Cyndy was reflecting on those early parenting years. She remembered the exhaustion. She remembered the loneliness that sometimes accompanied it.

And then she said something that stopped me.

She wants our home to be for Madison what her parents’ home was for us.

A place of grace.

Not a place where people feel like they are imposing.

A place where they can rest.

A place where they can be cared for.

A place where someone remembers what they need before they ask.

The addresses of grace are handed down from generation to generation.

We receive grace, and if we are fortunate, one day we discover we are being asked to give it.

That thought has stayed with me because this month Bear Creek is serving as host for the Lake Washington Safe Parking Program. Twenty guests are using our parking lot while they navigate a difficult season in their lives.

Every time I walk through the lot, I find myself thinking about grace and addresses.

Most of us can name the places where grace found us. A grandparent’s home. A neighbor’s living room. A teacher’s classroom. A church that welcomed us when life was hard.

Someone made room.

I don’t know what our guests will remember years from now.

But I hope they remember how they felt.

I hope they remember that, for a season, there was a church that made room for them.

I hope they remember warmth.

I hope they remember dignity.

I hope they remember that they were treated not as a problem to be solved, but as people to be loved.

I hope they remember Bear Creek as a place of grace.

Our first meal as hosts is Tuesday evening.

And guess who’s bringing the pickles?

Maybe that’s how grace works.

Someone remembers what was given to them and passes it along.

A jar of Claussen pickles in a refrigerator in Avon, South Dakota.

A meal shared in a church parking lot in Woodinville, Washington.

Different addresses.

Same grace.

Peace,

Brook