Silent Truths

The Father’s Grace

Can you imagine it?

The first child, wide-eyed and trembling with awe, stepping out into a world not dulled by decades of noise and distraction, but brand new.

“To the child, the candy store was heaven. To the adult, it became a kingdom. But to the Giver, it was always just a weekend of joy.”
— Silent Truths

No sidewalks cracked by time, no buildings blotting out the horizon—only endless beauty, untouched and unclaimed. Mountains not yet climbed, oceans unmarred by oil, skies unscribbled by jets. The whole world—a divine display—and God, the Eternal Father, simply kneels to their level, smiles, and says:

“There you go, little one. It’s all yours. Free.”

Just as it is written,

“Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth” (Ecclesiastes 11:9)

The first heart that beheld creation surely must have leapt with uninhibited delight.

Like a child who stumbles across a candy store with a sign hanging out front: “All Free. Take What You Like.” And what child wouldn’t explode into giggles, running headfirst into a mountain of sweets, fists full of chocolate and eyes spinning like jawbreakers in a glass jar? Imagine the air filled with sugary laughter, caramel flung into the sky like confetti, the ground sticky with the residue of joy.

“The light of the eyes rejoiceth the heart,” Proverbs 15:30

This passage reminds us—and what is purer than the light in a child’s eyes when faced with unrestrained goodness?

This—this is grace. Unmerited. Undeserved. Unpurchasable.

The sheer audacity of a child not asking why the candy is free, but simply trusting in the sign. There’s something sacred in that innocence, something terribly, achingly beautiful.

This is the essence of creation’s first offering—an Earth gifted not as a reward but as a starting point. A blank canvas and a stocked candy store, bursting at the seams with potential and pleasure.

“The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it” (Proverbs 10:22)

In the beginning there was only abundance, unmarred by scarcity or shame.

But grace, like candy, is not eternal in the way we wish it were. Time marches, as it must. We are no longer the child trembling with gratitude. We are the grown-up, hoarding the sweetness, stockpiling chocolate coins like currency, claiming shelves of the candy store as if we built them ourselves.

Our eyes no longer shine—they narrow, calculating. We hang new signs: “Private Property,” “By Invite Only,” “No Trespassing.” We whisper ownership where God whispered gift.

Somewhere along the way, the child’s joy calcified into possessiveness. The sweets became symbols—of power, of privilege, of pride. What was once received with awe becomes assumed as entitlement. What was shared freely is fenced off.

“The soul of the wicked desireth evil: his neighbour findeth no favour in his eyes” (Proverbs 21:10)

We see it clearly—those who hoard what was freely given, blind to the faces pressed against the glass.

And oh, the mess we’ve made. Imagine a child so obsessed with the candy that they forget the one who opened the store in the first place. Forget that it ever had a door. Forget it ever had a giver. The gift becomes god. And so grace, twisted by time and greed, becomes something grotesque—a vault of sugar where no sweetness is left.

“The heart of man is full of evil, and madness is in their heart while they live” (Ecclesiastes 9:3)

We have witnessed that descent, again and again, through history and through our own hearts.

And when the candy runs out… what then?

What happens when we find the bottom of the jar? When the chocolate fountains stop flowing? When the shelves grow empty and the joy that once exploded in color is now dulled by bitterness? Is that not what time does to us all? The store begins to close. The light flickers. The sign begins to weather. And we—still clutching a pocketful of stale gumdrops—refuse to let go.

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

That includes the season of receiving without consequence.

But here’s the truth, the hard candy core of it all: the world was never ours. Not the trees, not the oceans, not the air, not even these bodies that wake and walk and wonder.

“Boast not thyself of tomorrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth” (Proverbs 27:1)

Yet, we pretend as if we hold eternity in our fists like lollipops we’ll never finish. We are guests in a candy store on loan, gifted a taste of heaven for a weekend. We are children handed the keys not to own, but to delight.

And eventually, the door will close.

Grace, like a season, has its end.

Not because God is cruel, but because grace was always meant to awaken gratitude, not greed. To spark joy, not ownership. To teach us the art of receiving, not the ugliness of clenching.

“He that trusteth in his riches shall fall: but the righteous shall flourish as a branch” (Proverbs 11:28)

Yet, how many of us plant ourselves in sugar as if it were soil?

Even candy must be excreted. Even joy must pass through the body and return to the earth. Even our laughter echoes only for a while.

“All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again” (Ecclesiastes 3:20)

We are passing things in a passing world, and every bite of grace was meant to remind us not of ownership—but of the Giver’s love.

And so, this is the call: to remember the store was always a gift. To live as if grace still hangs on the door:

“All Free. Come, taste, enjoy.”

To return again to the wide-eyed wonder of the first child. To fling candy into the sky once more. To dance not because we earned it, but because we were loved enough to be let in.

“Better is a handful with quietness, than both the hands full with travail and vexation of spirit” (Ecclesiastes 4:6)

In that quiet gratitude lies the secret of grace.