Wednesday, March 20, 2019


What’s funny about grace is that it’s here, no matter what. It’s here in our missteps and our ill-informed decisions. It’s underneath the bickering in the car. It’s standing at the dinner table, waiting to be invited to a chair. It still manages to work through our sharp, pointed words that utterly fail to convey their point. It seeps through the worry and the fears for our loved ones that we can barely moderate. Our immoderate need to care for others is still grace, even if imperfect.

In the middle of a pompous, self-important Mass, featuring one of the most ear-numblingly tired homilies I have ever heard in my entire life, at the moment of consecration lost in the muddle of the moment, I laugh.

My God.

You are here, in this prideful and unrepentant soul, who sits in judgement of the smells and bells around her. You are here in the sniffly ceremonious reaching for the sublime.

Oh God—and I do not say it vainly—you are here in the mess and hell of it.

Taking what is ordinary: stiff necks, stony hearts, stale bread, and making it yourself.

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