When I was little I would hear people talk about grace and think it must be something special because their eyes got wet when they spoke of it. They'd sing a song about grace and their voice would crack a little and diminish until they cleared their throat. Grace had meaning.
I can't say that grace has had meaning for me my whole life. It's been mostly a mystery to me. The closest thing I could picture to grace was ballerinas and tutus. Grace was pink and fluffy to me.
I have tried to make grace originate from me. It's a massive failure. With me as the source, grace looks more like Pollyanna jacked up on caffeine.
I have come to a place in life where grace has more dimension to my life.
Grace is the mortar in my broken life. I have a bunch of broken pieces. I have irritating pieces, like billing departments who make my life complicated with wrong balances. I have guilt pieces, like the terrible thing I said to my young daughter who keeps repeating it back to me. I have sadness and devastation and I have elation; it's all there. I have lots of pieces and they're all glass. When I lay them out delicately they make no sense, but when Mortar Grace is poured between the spaces, they're connected. They have meaning. And all the sharp edges are gone. All that is left is one whole piece. It's a mosaic, but it's all stuck together. Broken, stuck-togetherness.
I used to think that grace was rigid and strong, but now I think that it is more stretchy than anything else. Every time I bring something before God that I think, "This can't possibly be in the scope of grace," I find that I am wrong. I bring weird things, like the fact that I hate planning dinner menus. I bring desires, I tell him of how much I want to design more. I bring fears and failures as well. I bring it all. When something disappointing happens, I've learned to say this: "Look forward to the grace that will be shown to you." It calms me somehow.
It's not a feeling. It's not a ballerina. It's not a trend.
Grace has a heartbeat. Grace is God turned human, created with fingerprints and nerve endings and experiencing limitations. Grace is someone who went before me so that I can live life in the beautiful shadow of that love.
My husband describes grace more elegantly, like the Milky Way. Our tiny planet sits snugly on the west arm of its vast expanse. We've sent out probes to know its magnificence but all the wonders we have already learned are just the beginning. We have years ahead of us. And not just decades. Astronomers are using words like "millions." Milky Way Grace. Mysterious. Evolving to us but never changing, really. Expansive. Thrilling. Humbling. Tangible. Murky at times. And then glorious.
Amazing, really.
