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Grace

“I wish grace and healing were more abracadabra kind of things. Also, that delicate silver bells would ring to announce grace's arrival. But no, it's clog and slog and scootch, on the floor, in the dark.”

Anne Lamott (Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith)

Anne Lamott is one author who can have me howling with laughter while lying alone in my bed at midnight, red-eyed because I can't put the book down. Her ability to elucidate every neurotic fear from which she suffers, and so do I, is uncannily clear and hilarious. She relies heavily on faith and grace to simply get through the day without collapsing, and is so authentic and productive in her hand-wringing, that she's the envy of most writers and readers alike.

Lamott's descriptions of grace include, “a ribbon of mountain air that gets through the cracks,” and “works like water wings when you feel you are sinking.” For me, grace is almost always seen in retrospect. I will entertain anxiety for days, sometimes weeks, before doing something I don't want to do. I tell myself ridiculous stuff, such as: “I can't do this.” “I shouldn't have to do this.” “This is so unfair.” as though I'm a five-year-old child, and should be protected from the realities of harsh old life. Then I force myself out and do whatever it is, which usually turns out to be nothing, or wonder-of-wonders even good. When it's over, a singular refreshment flows through me like clear water. That's grace.

Sometimes, the worst things I can think of happen—I lose a relationship, or I lose a job, or I don't know where the next pay-check is coming from. I run through the litany of terrible outcomes—I'll be alone forever, no one loves me because I'm unlovable, I'll become a bag lady on the streets of Birmingham—only to realize in hindsight that grace saved my sorry self once again. Grace lived right in the middle of that loss.

It's a strange thing, grace. She doesn't come with silver bells, and she can't be summoned. Sometimes she wears terrible clothing and smells like a rat. But if we're willing to hang in there with her, believe in her, and keep on slogging and scootching, she shows up and does her thing, and we know it when we see her hieing away in the rear view mirror.

                                                       In the Spirit,

                                                           Jane