On a beautiful spring day in 1964, I was walking home from school along the main road of our little rural village of Southold. Suddenly, a police car pulled up alongside me. The window came down, and the police chief called to me, ‘George, how are you?’ Like I said, it was a small town.

I replied, ‘Fine’. He said, ‘Get in’. Now my stomach is getting queasy, and my palms are beginning to sweat.

I got into the back seat and said hello to the lieutenant sitting next to the chief. Two of the highest-ranking police officers were inviting me to… what? 

A short drive later, we turned onto a small side road. The lieutenant pointed to a house with a large broken picture window and asked me, ‘George, did you do that?’ With a mouth full of cotton, I replied,’ Yeah.’ We had some chit-chat after that, which I don’t remember because by this time I am picturing myself in a cell in the village jail.

They drove me home. Now that’s a pretty sight: a police cruiser parked in my driveway for all the neighbors to see. The chief said they would be in touch… as soon as the owner of the home was notified and asked if he wanted to press charges. (The homeowners were summer residents not present at the time of the crime.)

Life was pretty much a haze for the next few hours. 

In the meantime, unbeknownst to me, the lieutenant spoke to the homeowner on my behalf. I was generally a good kid, you should know, who succumbed to some evil impulse inspired by the dare of the guys I was with. I threw the rock in broad daylight, and a neighbor must have spotted me.

Eventually I  met the owner face-to-face. I was absolutely intimidated and in tears. He said he would NOT press charges but would require me to pay for a new picture window. It would take me the entire summer to save up the money.

This was one of my earliest encounters with grace. Not cheap grace because it came with some financial and emotional cost. It was a good lesson.

Fast forward 40 years. 

I am the pastor (who woulda thunk) in a church 10 miles from the scene of the crime. One day the funeral director asked me if I would do the funeral for the wife of a man I didn’t know. I thought the name was familiar but at the time couldn’t quite place it.

Eventually it came to me. This was the homeowner with the broken picture window!

The man had remarried and moved, and I was about to meet him again. After we talked at length about his wife and the funeral service, I said, ‘Mr. Jones (not his real name), I’m not sure you remember me, but I’m the guy who broke your window.’ He said, Oh, I know who you are.’ He was still gracious. And now I was able to extend a measure of grace to him in his grief.

Now you know the rest of the story.

There is a lot of goodness and grace in this life, and it all comes from the love of a good God.