“The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.”
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

I never know how to start during these moments. The space I have is so narrow, too narrow for all the thoughts and fears, memories and questions, sighs and wanderings. I want to be poetic. I want to be still. I want to be alone and comfortable. I want to cry. I want to sing. There is not time.

So I will simply start. I will turn to the pages of this yellowed book, favored and familiar pages with good stories. I will be present with the pages that tell my story – and all our stories. I will inhale the pages that breathe life, truth, and grace. And I will fall in my trembling place when the pages say, “Just stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

“She has not raised kids, endured severe financial hardship or cared for a dying loved one – in short, she has not lived enough of life to offer us real grace.”
TheOOZE Viral Blogger Review of As Is by “monster,” July 14, 2010

A monster recently crossed my path. A big, hairy monster with a heavy shadow to boot. And the monster said that I didn’t have any “real” grace to offer because I hadn’t given birth to a mentally handicapped son. Because I hadn’t nursed a dying loved one. Because I hadn’t endured financial hardship. Because, in monster’s opinion, I hadn’t really lived. So how could I dare to write about messy grace – a topic that has “been done before and done better by others” in his opinion.

You see, monster decided to read and review As Is for TheOOZE’s Viral Blogger platform, a platform that has earned As Is mixed reviews at best. But in many ways, it’s been refreshing. I have invited the comments and suggestions from peers and have been inspired to work that much harder at my craft. Until this review. Truth be told, monster knocked the wind out of me with his assumptions and judgments as he questioned the authenticity and validity of who I am.

So, as is my MO, I’ve been thinking. Thinking about this book review. Thinking about my writing. Thinking about my story, my life’s story. And most of this thinking has been good because it landed me in a place I needed to be. A place where I was forced to unearth truth and beauty again. And it was there that I discovered we – all of us – have something to say about grace. Because we all have a story. Some stories are grittier than others. Some stories are, on the surface, a little tidier. But not long after we’re out of the womb, life on planet earth collides with us and brings us face to face with moments when grace, mercy, peace, love and truth must show up if we are to go on.

Some of us have cancer.
Some of us have eating disorders.
Some of us have anxiety attacks.
Some of us lose our jobs.
Some of us bury children.
Some of us suffer deep betrayal by the one who said, “till death do us part.”
Some of us are raped.
Some of us endure racial hate.
Some of us are physically abused.
Some of us are bullied in school.
Some of us have barren wombs.
Some of us endure the tragedy of front-line warfare.
Some of us have multiple sclerosis.
Some of us lose limbs in car accidents.
Some of us go without food.
Some of us are sold into sex trafficking.
Some of us are alcoholics.
Some of us suffer depression.
Some of us don’t have clean water to drink.
Some of us lose our homes in floods.

We all need grace. And we need it spoken to us in a variety of voices.

Maybe monster has the luxury of being choosy about who he’ll allow to speak “real” grace into his life. Me – I’ll take grace anywhere I can get it. I’ll take it from the 16-year-old kid at the grocery store. I’ll take it from U2 or Hoagy Carmichael or Beethoven, Annie Dillard or Joan Didion or Frederick Buechner. I’ll take it from my single girlfriends who have no idea what it’s like to be married with children. I’ll take it from my husband who has never suffered a panic attack or battled an eating disorder. I’ll take it from my 13-month-old son who has barely been touched by the tragedy and pain of this world.

I’ll take it from anyone, anywhere, any time. Because if I demand that anyone who speak “real” grace into my life go through the hardest, most catastrophic life events or the exact circumstances I have experienced before they’re qualified, I’ll never receive grace.

I’ve lived long enough to know that none of our storms are the same. And the minute we go around comparing, judging and deciding whose got the biggest, baddest, most hardcore life story, we lose sight of what grace is all about. We lose sight of something whole-making and powerful. We lose sight of coming like children – clamoring, hands open, excited to receive whatever is given.

No, I don’t have the luxury of being picky about where grace comes from. I grasp for it. I inhale it. I gulp it down like a beggar at a feast. And I find it not only in the hardest and most tragic moments that life hurls at me and those around me. But I find it in the mundane and monotonous. Because grace is for all of us in all our moments – not just for those whose stories are the deepest or darkest.

So it turns out that even in a malicious review and personal attack, grace found me. She reminded me who I am, whose I am, and that life is grace (as Buechner says). So thanks, monster. In spite of your shadow, grace won. Real grace.

Grace finds beauty in everything.
U2, Grace

I will not forget.
I cannot pretend.
This has been the break and bend,
This has been the break and mend,
This has been the break and end
Of me
As I know me,
As I knew me.
Lost, lost, lost
And gone forever,
Is it ok to call this “never”
As I watch the others,
The others go?
Not mothers, no, but others,
Go in and out
In and out
In and out
All day without
A care,
Light as air
As I stare.
Do I romanticize,
Fantasize,
Analyze,
Demonize?
Their eyes
Behind perfect sunglassed shades
Coifed hair
Clean shirts
Important deals being made
While I,
While I,
While I
In smeared and smattered smock
Do slouch and count the Os
Mosaic on the floorboard
And O, how I used to be so clean
A sight to be seen,
Supreme,
The Queen of my Universe
So I thought
Controlled,
In ivory tower,
On pause for hours,
Walking with the flowers,
A superpower
Until,
Until,
Until
Indelible line, pink pale
Nine months later, a wail,
A battle to the finish,
But we fought together, no limits
And that was the last time
I got my way
The day I got you
And all that comes with who
You were born to be,
A soul like me
STRONG
FIGHTER
PASSION
FLYER
Is it any wonder?
Is it any wonder?
Is it any wonder
You bring the thunder
And lighten your momma’s heart
When the pain of old desires comes sharp.
You breathe,
I breathe,
You breathe,
You smile in your sleep,
You laugh and weep,
Your boldness runs deep
Already you keep
A place in your heart for the pain
And the rain
And the shame
Of a world that needs and bleeds
For one like you,
One like you,
One like you,
Who holds his momma’s hand
When she can’t stand
Because she can’t stand,
She can’t stand,
She won’t stand
Alone
Anymore.

So together we weather
The surges of grace
That come our way
As grace, these days,
Floods us in tempest strong.
I know it won’t be long -
I’ll blink,
I’ll blink,
I’ll blink,
These days be gone
And I’ll wish them back,
The smock
The pain
The tears
Endless drain
Of shame and tasks
And more to do than
Ability or facility
And brevity,
O, brevity,
I know these days are brevity
But pain be what pain be:
TEACHER,
WAKER-UPPER,
FAITHFUL LOVER.

And you are enough, my friend,
My son,
My sun,
A treasure,
A pleasure,
A measureless glory,
You are enough.

And I am enough
In fallen state,
In guilt and hate,
A daughter still,
A daughter still
I am enough.

I cannot pretend.
I may not mend.
But he is here.
No fear.
No fear.
No fear.
He is here.

[For mommas everywhere who bleed love.]

I remember the light -
the way it slipped through the slats in the
vertical blinds as we began the final leg of our
journey together.

I remember you -
the way you felt when your
daddy laid you on my chest,
soft and slimy and
perfect.

I remember the midwife -
the way she told me how
beautiful you were and how
perfect your butt was and that I should
kiss it…so I did!

I remember everything about the night before -
the way my water broke at one,
the ride to the hospital at two,
three contractions at the admissions desk,
the way your daddy held me up through
every pressure wave,
the water pouring over me,
going to the furthest threshold of pain without any barrier of relief,
the way you turned after all our hard work.

And I remember the moment -
too sacred to tell.

I remember the light -
the light of your life and soul
so new and fresh,
the light of you in a world wanting for brightness.

Happy Birthday, sweet Jude. I will always remember your story and love your life.

I laughed as Jude cuddled up close to me. It was his new way of letting me know he was making the poo-poo. As his poops become more solid, he is becoming more freaked out by the whole “number two” thing. So he cuddles.

I looked at the clock. I had time, or a few minutes anyway. “Alright,” I said, “let’s go change that diaper, let’s go change that diaper….” I sang our made-up diaper song as we cha-cha’ed to his room and proceeded to swap out the hot mess. I got him all cleaned up in time to prep a little for my podcast interview.

But as we sat on the floor a few minutes later – me with my laptop and Jude with his blocks – it happened. Jude crawled quietly over to me and climbed into my lap, again, wrapping his arms around my neck.

“Aw, buddy, what’s going on?” But I already knew. More poop. Big time poop.

I sprang into action with just a few minutes to spare before I’d be chatting with Josh Case of the Nick and Josh Podcast. But not only was this the messier of the two diapers, Jude wasn’t even remotely interested in being on his back for another diaper change. He was so opposed, in fact, that he rolled over before I could catch him, dragged his leg through the stinky mass, crab-crawled toward his blocks and laughed.

With about sixty seconds to spare before my interview appointment, I chased Jude down, cleaned him up, put on a fresh diaper, and scrubbed the carpet. Then I did this interview. An interview I’m proud of if for no other reason than that it was born out of a very authentic, very as-is moment. There’s  just something about a laughing, cuddling, pooping one-year-old that keeps you real, humbled and completely incapable of posing.