“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.”

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

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 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.

Jude keeps saying Abba. All the time Abba. While he’s playing with his blocks. While he’s eating his Toastie O’s. While he’s riding in his car seat. Even as he drifts to sleep.

I know he doesn’t know what he’s saying, what his baby talk means. But there’s something in it and it is not wasted on me.

“Whoever becomes simple and elemental again. like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom.”
- Gospel of Matthew 18:4 (The Message)

Who is that little girl?, I think as I pull out the 28-year-old snapshot I carry in my journal. Legs folded Indian-style. Hands grasping her ankles. Face set in an unapologetic expression. She would not be moved from the roof of the brown truck. She had climbed. Scaled the back bumper. Soldiered through the bed. Conquered the rear window. She had reached her destination.

And she would not be moved. She would not deny who she was or what she had done. She would not ask permission first, but charge ahead, unrelenting, full-boar. She would ask forgiveness later (if pressed). But there was nothing to forgive. She was only being herself. Her tenacious, curious, undiluted self. She was only doing what a confident, inspired, spirited little girl would do.

Was it dangerous?

Sure.

Was it risky?

You bet.

But safety, comfort, static-ness – they were overrated.

As I think about my son and my role as his mother, I am decided. I must find the value of risk again. Risking the climb, risking the fall, risking what people might think of me. Because Jude needs that kind of mom. A mom who plays hard and loves harder – no matter the heights to fall.

Yes, if I am to care for Jude in the best way possible, that little girl needs to emerge again. Because she’s still there. I know she is. And she needs to come out to play. And climb, climb, climb the hard places beside him.

“Looks like they forgot your guacamole. I’ll get that for you.”

I recognized the voice instantly. I had seen him coming with our tray of food, but thought if I looked away really quickly it wouldn’t be him. I just wanted to pretend I didn’t know him. So I did. I kept my head turned toward Jude as he came back with my ramekin of guac.

“So, you singing around these days?”

Damn.

“Oh my gosh! Hey, uh, please refresh my memory. Mommy brain,” I laughed.

“Dave.”

“Dave. Right, right. Krista,” I said as I put my hand to my chest, re-introducing myself to this long-lost acquaintance. “This is Jason, my husband, and Jude,” I said glancing at my two fellas. “Yeah, not really singing at all. We started a publishing company, so I’m doing a lot of writing. You, uh, you drumming?”

“No, no. Getting married in two months. Working here, too. It’s, well, it’s busy.”

“Yeah. Absolutely. Congrats,” I said.

“Well, I’ll let you…” he nodded toward our food.

“Yeah. Good to see you.”

And there it was. The class of 2000 reunion for two Music City drop-outs.

As I devoured my baked potato at hungry momma speed, I thought about the shame that tags along with those of us who came to Nashville so many years ago with bright eyes and green hopes. It tags along unnoticed until we run into an old classmate, the guy who filled in on percussion for a couple of gigs. And then we get reminded of something old and gone, something that made us feel like losers. But, as I picked around chives and onions I thought to myself, why do I feel so meh?

In that moment I didn’t have an answer. I just glanced up to find Dave scurrying around, filling orders as fast as he could, trying to keep a bustling lunch crowd happy. We’ve both got “real” jobs now, families, new dreams. I suppose the fear is that when we drop-outs run into each other, we’ll begin to think that our new dreams, the things we’re so passionate about these days, will somehow end up just as lost and unfinished as our dreams of making it in Music City. That we’ll always just be dreamers. The kind of people who start things, but never finish them.

And then a bigger fear sets in. That, as a way to avoid the loss, we’ll stop dreaming. We’ll stop starting. Stop living.

Before I left with Jason and Jude, I looked up one last time to find Dave. He was behind the counter of the eat-in restaurant, managing the assembly line, hefting a bulky package of sandwich tissue paper over his head, a smile on his face. He was happy. I was happy, too. We are both far more content than any Nashville success could’ve made us. He has his bride-to-be and a job that makes him feel important. And I, well, I have more than I ever dreamed possible.

Maybe next time I see Dave (or any other drop-out, for that matter) I won’t be engulfed in “should haves” and shame. Maybe I’ll finally see my season as a Nashville singer/songwriter for what it was: a courageous and lovely attempt to connect with real people through a couple verses, a chorus and a bridge. Maybe next time we won’t talk about what we didn’t do, or what we aren’t doing, but what we are doing. Because sometimes dropping out is good. Knowing when to shut down the show is just as important as perseverance and tenacity. And some dreams are never ripe.

I kissed Jason and Jude as we made our way to the car. Yep. No doubt about it. I’m living the dream.

I walked into the brick building in the industrial park, unsure if I even had the right place. As a warm breeze swept through the wisps of Jude’s blond hair, carrying with it hope and relief, I breathed in. We have been putting life on hold in so many ways since Jude was born. I suppose that’s what happens when a child – especially your first – comes along. But something in the air seemed about to change.

I cradled Jude’s chunky butt in one arm and gripped a purple ceramic pot with an orchid in the other hand. I was met with a cool “hello” from the receptionist as the vertical blinds on the door clanked behind me.

“Is Tammy in today?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’ll, uh, get her when I take this back,” the receptionist said, picking up her grocery bag of lunch.

A minute later, when my friend came around the corner, we both got tears in our eyes and couldn’t hug fast enough. You see, we haven’t seen each other for months. Almost a year to be exact.

As we stood in the small and dimly lit lobby, we caught up on each others’ lives as fast as we could. We have tried several times to get together, but since last summer, she and her husband have learned he has a chronic disease. She has given up hobbies and activities and lunches out with friends to keep her family functioning.

And, while Jude is the greatest blessing of my life, caring for him completely alone with only Jason’s super-dad help has forced me to also give up many things to keep my own family functioning.

As Tammy held Jude and talked sweetly to him, it hit me. There we were. Two women. Dear friends. Missing the other. Wanting to be better connected, a part of one another’s story again. But we were also two wives. Two moms. And we had families to take care of. She had to stand by her husband. His sickness had consumed so much of her time and energy as she fought against disease with him. And I’ve had Jude, tending to his needs alone the large majority of the time. We’ve been fighting for wholeness. For health. For love.

So there we were, our friendship having weathered its most intense storm. Not a fight. Not a cross-country move. But just the life stuff, the hard places where we had to make a choice between seeing each other or minding our marriages. Between getting together for a glass of wine or being there when our child woke up multiple times between the hours of 7:00 and 10:00 p.m. And, as impossible as it sounds, in this season we could not have both. It really has been a choice without compromise.

“I forgot my nephew’s birthday. I didn’t send Christmas cards. I’m not teaching Sunday School anymore. I can’t even remember the last time we went to church,” she told me.

“Oh, girl, don’t even get me started,” I said, laughing and looking at Jude.

“I really would love to get together soon,” Tammy said as she handed Jude back to me and picked up the orchid I’d brought for her.

I got tears in my eyes because I wanted to see my friend again, too. “You just take care of your family. We’ll get together.”

And with that, we said goodbye while Jude did his best to wave. As I drove away, I realized that friends are precious. Sometimes you wish your friends were your family. Sometimes our friends are even closer than family. But when it comes down to it, we have to take care of our families first. Those precious few lives entrusted to us to love and bless.

Sometimes we have to put life as we know it on hold. And then we get back to life. Eventually. The air changes. It’s a season thing. Just knowing I have a friend who understands that was enough.

Remember – the root word of humble and human is the same: humus: earth. We are dust. We are created; it is God who made us and not we ourselves.
Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water

As I inhaled and exhaled in concert with the Ashtanga Yoga poses I attempted, I felt it. Felt it toe-tip to scalp. Felt it in my bones and in my soul. It reminded me of the mist that fell on us and the Yountville appellation each morning we spent in Napa. It was a refreshing. A re-birthing. A glimpse of wholeness.

Breathe.

Since Jude rocked our world back in July, important things like exercise, slowness, and breathing have gotten lost in the cracks and crevices of parenthood. Of course, proper priority says that raising a child is the most important thing we can do with our time and energy. But wisdom would also add that you can’t raise a child well if you are unwell.

And as I leaned back in child’s pose, the fibers of carpet tickling the tip of my nose, I knew what I had to do.

Breathe.

Science tells us that when we breathe, we eliminate 70% of the toxins in our body. I suppose that’s why I’ve felt like a cesspool in so many areas of my life. Scattered. Weary. Tired. Unbalanced. Frustrated. Harried. Hurried. Torn. Undone. Disconnected. Fragmented. Gross.

Breathe.

As I rose from Mrtasana, also known as Corpse Pose, I felt alive. Although this pose’s name literally means “death,” the  instructor on my yoga video explains that this is the most restorative and important pose in yoga. That something must die so that we can truly live.

Breathe.

After rising quietly from my final pose, I looked at the calendar. February 17. Ash Wednesday. First day of the Lenten season. I marked the day with the wispy writing: Breathe. This year, for Lent, I will breathe.

I continued breathing as I picked up the bonus room. And, as I did, I heard something new as the rhythm of my breath accompanied a deeper rhythm. This year, rather than giving something up for Lent, I would take something in, knowing full well that this would still require a giving up, a kind of dying. Dying to tasks that stroke my need for perfection. Dying to distractions that overstimulate. Dying to loves that poison any hope of peace.

Receive.

Breathe.

Talitha koum. Rise up, little girl.

And along with each breath, a prayer that I would experience God’s nearness so deeply that his very breath would be mine.

Then the LORD God formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being. [Genesis 2:7]

*Print: Breathe by Melanie Weidner   Copyright 2005