grace /ɡrās/ noun: a short prayer before or after a meal, in which a blessing is asked and thanks are given
The first time my future partner, Frank and I had dinner with his kids (then aged 8 & 4), I was jittery and nervous. I’d not spent much time with them as a family. I loved this man with my whole self and I wanted it to be easy-breezy and smooth.
We served up the plates in the kitchen and as I approached the table, the three of them started eating as soon as their butts hit the chairs.
“Hold on!” I said. All three of them looked up at me with forks suspended in front of their mouths. “Let’s say grace first.”
They looked at me again.
“Let’s wait for each other, just pause, hold hands and give thanks before we eat,” I said, realizing immediately that I’d already blown the whole easy-breezy thing.
“This is the grace my family has said for three generations,” I said, taking the hands of each of the kids. “To the Giver of all good things, we lift up our hearts with praise and thanksgiving. Amen.”
We still say it together before every meal. Now it’s four generations.
grace /ɡrās/ noun: simple elegance or refinement of movement. ALSO elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion, or action
Here’s what’s decidedly not graceful: heel walking with a bulky, loose bandage wrapped on one foot. Neither elegant nor refined, it is a hobbly, jerky, bumpy affair.
My foot injury this year has opened my eyes to the difficulties that disabled folks deal with every day. It has also showed me that physical movement is not the only way to be graceful.
I’ve seen people with far more daunting challenges than a floppy ACE bandage be kind, clear and generous about their circumstances and needs. I’ve witnessed staggering grace while I’m just staggering – literally and figuratively.
When my grumbling is loud, I ask myself, Can I be with, speak about and advocate for my limitation with grace?
Much of the time, frankly, no.
I’m cranky and annoyed with doing even simple things although my “disability” is mostly a nuisance and (at least for now) temporary.
Can I be with, speak about and advocate for my limitation with grace?
Living the past many months in my body has given me respect and admiration for those who can.
grace /ɡrās/ noun: courteous goodwill. also mercy; clemency; pardon
“Give yourself a huge umbrella of grace.” ~ Tiffany Han, coach, podcaster, badass
The first time she said it, I cut my eyes a little. The word “grace” has religious connotations for me and I was instantly suspicious. I wrestled with the idea every time she said it until the grace moved from my head into my body.
Three in the morning and I was deep in a shame spiral about a bad mistake I’d made. I squeezed my fists and my heart, relentlessly berating myself for screwing up in a way that NO ONE I RESPECTED EVER WOULD. Restless and sleepless, I took a deep breath, put my hand on my heart and heard Tiffany’s words, “Give yourself a huge umbrella of grace.”
I exhaled and felt a softening. Rather than the protective quality of an umbrella, what I felt was an immersion, a warm swirl of compassion. A river of grace. For me. For the person I’d hurt. For everybody. Just an endless, pouring stream of grace.
Since that sleepless night, whenever I feel that tight twisting of judgment and isolating criticism, I take a breath and feel the flowing river of grace on every. single. one. of. us.