have strong bones. And it’s a good thing.

Since I first piled up the bedding as a step stool to escape from my crib and ended up throwing myself out of the enclosed bed, landing on my head (I was OK, or so they told me), I have tripped, fallen, and fumbled my way through life.

I am not physically graceful. I doubt I’ve ever even had a moment when I truly displayed the pleasing, attractive action that defines graceful movement. (I was methodical and plodding during my wedding so that I wouldn’t trip and hurl a heavy bouquet of orchids into the face of a supportive friend or relative. And while this was the closest I’ve probably ever been to achieving a slivered semblance of polish, I wasn’t, however, graceful.) From a spaghetti-and-sauce-laden tray landing on top of my prone body after I slipped on a wet spot in a high school cafeteria to racing down the steps of Sligo church in Takoma Park, Maryland, after college graduation practice (only to be yanked painfully back and slammed hard onto the concrete by an errant strap of my book bag), the truth is clear: I am klutzy.

Even today bumps and bruises and sprains find their way into my being as I bang my head on my desk reaching for a pen I’ve dropped, run smack into a half-open door as I’m talking and looking at someone while attempting to enter another room, or bang my elbows on anything that happens to be in close proximity to these appendages. When I’m playing in a recreational soccer game, I get hurt—not by the fast-moving ball or by a vicious slide tackle, but by walking onto the field. Rosamond Lehmann wrote this in The Ballad and the Source: “When she moved, it was a swan moving.” Obviously, she wasn’t talking about me.

Clumsiness can be very humbling. It is hard, for example, to stick your nose in the air and flounce away from someone with righteous indignation oozing from every move when one of your heels gets stuck in a heating vent. After almost falling into a heap you have to bend down and dislodge the shoe. Trust me, the dramatic exit is totally ruined.

Now, my lack of physical grace has little to do with a cumbersome build or poor coordination. I am not lumbering or ungainly. My lack has mostly to do with one thing: carelessness. It’s not merely a matter of looking before leaping—I usually look when it’s too late, even if my “leap” is nothing more than a minor move. Such as picking up the dropped pen. Or carrying way too much laundry down the steps to the washing machine.

But alas, thankfully, there is redemption for me. It lies in the other side of grace, in the “real” grace—the grace that is directly from and of God.

In the spiritual sense, grace is far more complex. And far more crucial.

Ellen G. White writes: “The Lord is still waiting to be gracious; He has not closed the windows of heaven. We have separated ourselves from Him. We need to fix the eye of faith upon the cross and believe that Jesus is our strength, our salvation” (Testimonies, vol. 5, p. 167).

She continues in Patriarchs and Prophets: “All the good qualities that men possess are the gift of God; their good deeds are performed by the grace of God through Christ. . . . If one comes to lose sight of his entire dependence on God, and to trust to his own strength, he is sure to fall” (p. 717).

Each time I make a not-too-supple move and crash into yet another thing, I am reminded that while I may not have much physical grace, I do have the grace of God right within reach. This is a grace I can attain (Acts 4:33). Right at this moment, in fact, for “at this very hour His Spirit and His grace are for all who need them and will take Him at His word” (Testimonies, vol. 8, p. 20).

And by the way, I don’t believe I am doomed to trip and fall until I do break some bones. To save myself some unpleasantness I need to exercise care, just as we Christians must with the gift of God’s grace.

Thank you for strong bones, Lord. Give me a strong heart to go with them.

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Kimberly Luste Maran is an assistant editor of the Adventist Review.