I fall down a lot. Not an occasional, ladylike trip, either. I frequently tumble and crash and lay myself out flat before God and everybody. In junior high, I fell down the bleachers at a basketball game and threw popcorn over an entire section of innocent fans. In college, I fell going up the steps, launched a cup of cranberry juice in the air, and felt it rain down on my head. I’ve fallen at movie theaters, malls, and countless times on our stairs at home. (The last time I fell there, my son said, “Maybe it’s your flip flops, Mom. They flip, you flop.” Thanks.)

When I was in high school, I had the biggest fall of all. I traveled with a high school music group each summer. It wasn’t nearly as prestigious as it sounds. We toured, performed for churches, and stayed with a different host family after each concert. On one occasion, my friends and I stayed in a very nice, very large, very new home. The owners proudly gave us a tour of all the fancy amenities: spa tubs, walk-in closets, and our hostess’s favorite part: real wood floors. I’m sure the high school me was duly impressed.

Next morning, we repacked our bags and prepared to leave. I carried my suitcases to the top of the beautiful wooden staircase and lowered a toe for step one, but my foot never made solid contact. Ever. Head over heels I went, bouncing and bumping all the way, limbs and luggage poking out everywhere, until I landed at the bottom in a most unladylike pile. I remember peeking up from beneath a suitcase to find my friends and hostess staring back down at me with wide eyes. Apparently they had come running when they heard my commotion. Slow grins spread across my friends’ faces, and they politely held in their laughter—for the moment. But my hostess was less gracious. She took a step toward me, and I expected her to help me to my feet. Rather than offer a hand, though, she stepped over me, as if I were a giant puddle. Just spread her legs wide and completely straddled the heap I’d made.

“My stairs,” she moaned as if she were going to be sick. And then again, a little louder, “My stairs!” Slowly she ascended the staircase, gently rubbing each step I’d violated, and then she gasped in horror. There, five steps above my final resting place, was an inch-long splinter in the wood. My gracious hostess looked down at this high school girl who had wrecked her perfect home and hissed, “You SCUFFED my STAIRS!”

Perhaps teenagers don’t fully appreciate things like wooden stairs. Maybe I should’ve had more respect for her brand new home. But at that moment, as I climbed from the luggage pile and apologized profusely, it seemed to me that perhaps my hostess had missed the point.

Unfortunately, I’m too often just like her. Spiritually speaking, I encounter people whose wrong decisions have left them wounded. Their very lives are a heap of hurt and desperation. But rather than offer a helping hand, I begin to point out the obvious. “Look what you broke!” “You really messed things up!” True: sinful choices make ugly consequences that can’t be ignored. However, Jesus came for the sick, not the healthy. For the sinners, not the righteous. Sometimes, just like my hostess, I miss the point.

God, help me to see the people You love, and not just what they’ve done. Give me the compassion to help, and the wisdom to always balance truth and grace. Thank You that You have mercy on people who fall. And thank You most of all for Jesus, who came to rescue this faller from the sinful heap I made. Amen.