$100,000 worth of Grace

 

Last year, I had one of those very important conversations with my youngest daughter, Abbey — the kind that makes you question your theology, your patience, and whether you should have had that second cup of coffee.

It started, as most profound moments do, in the car on the way to dance class.

We were talking about the usual stuff — friends, how math is slowly ruining her life, and how vegetables are clearly a government conspiracy.

And then, somewhere between a stoplight and a Taylor Swift song, I asked:

“If you could only have one kind of candy for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

She froze. Like, existential crisis froze.
You could practically see her soul buffering.

This wasn’t small talk. This was philosophy. Theology. Legacy.

Immediately, she began to cross-examine me like a ten-year-old trial attorney.

“Why would anyone have to choose one candy forever? What kind of world is that? Who’s making these rules?”

“Just hypothetical,” I said.

“Hypothetical sounds like a word made up by someone who doesn’t eat enough candy,” she muttered.

Fair.

But then she surrendered — and started sorting through the sacred texts of childhood sugar.

Sour Patch Kids: They hit first, but they lose the flavor too quickly..

Trolli Crawlers: Great package, terrible aftertaste.
Hubba Bubba: Good gum, turns to rubber.
Reese’s: A masterpiece.
Butterfinger: Tastes like chemicals and insulation.

I laughed so hard I nearly missed the turn. I never knew she tasted insulation.

Then she got quiet. Looked out the window.
And said, “Dad, remember that candy bar you got me once? The one after my bad day at school?”

I didn’t. Of course, I didn’t.
My brain is a thrift store of half-remembered moments.

But she remembered everything.
“The wrapper was red,” she said.
“It had a number on it. And it was broken in half on the front.”

It hit me like a sugar rush.
“$100,000 Bar!” I yelled.

Her eyes lit up. “Yes! That’s the one. That’s my forever candy.”

And I smiled — because that was my favorite, too.
When I was her age, it was just $100,000. Not “Grand.”
Simpler. Cleaner.

Maybe because back then, dreams didn’t need the extra word.

So there we were — forty years apart —
united by caramel, peanuts, chocolate, and grace.
Same candy.
Same joy.
Same God smiling somewhere in the traffic jam.

And here’s what I learned that day:
If you’re lucky enough to slow down, life will hand you these small, ridiculous, holy moments.
Moments that taste like laughter and sugar and something divine.

The kind of moments you would’ve missed when you were too busy being “important.”

The kind that remind you:
Sometimes heaven shows up in the backseat of a car, holding a $100,000 bar,
teaching you that love — like candy — is meant to be shared.

Oh — and I forgot to mention…
She has braces.

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“Taste and see that the Lord is good.” 

- Psalm 34:8