Posts Tagged ‘art’
real grace
“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
No CommentsNWMWP: 1
Bet you’re wondering what NWMWP stands for, huh? Well, dear Pendroppers, it’s a new category I’m excited to introduce to you.
(Drum roll, please…)
Non-weekly, Mid-Week Picks!
That’s right…the NWMWP gives me the chance to rave about my latest favorite things, from restaurants to books to wine to the greatest hair product ever. Nothing is off-limits – all that’s required is that it puts a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Oh, and it might not be weekly, but you already knew that.
On that note, let me kick off the inaugural NWMWP with a question: How do you know when someone is doing the very thing they were created to do?
Is it…
A. Observing their talent gives you goosebumps on your toe nails.
B. Said person harnesses their skill effortlessly – almost to the point where you say to yourself, “Hey, I could do that.”
C. Said person’s authenticity, kindness and humble confidence make you want to be their sister (or brother).
D. All of the above.
The answer is D. And I had the pleasure of experiencing all of the above last night while hearing newbie artist Lanae Hale share her exquisite songs and honest stories of life, love, redemption and hope.
The 24-year-old Florida native pronounces her words like Death Cab for Cutie frontman, Ben Gibbard; gives flight to her notes like Sarah McLachlan; and captivates every shred of your attention in a way few performers do.
It’s almost unheard of for an artist so new to Nashville to perform so flawlessly, so powerfully, but Lanae is the exception. Distinctly her own, an unparalleled talent, Lanae makes it clear to anyone who hears her that she is, quite simply, doing the very thing she was created to do.
Do yourself a gigantic favor this week and check out Lanae at her MySpace page to listen to a few of her haunting and memorable songs. Or just go straight to iTunes and buy her EP. You’ll be glad you hopped on the Lanae bandwagon early!
1 Commentthank you, raymond carver (or what one doubting writer would say to another)
“At the risk of appearing foolish, a writer sometimes needs to be able to just stand and gape at this or that thing – a sunset or an old shoe – in absolute and simple amazement.”
Raymond Carver
I have loved you since my first introduction, freshman year of college, some eleven years ago. I loved Cathedrals and your many commas, your abrupt periods, your dense words, your lengthy characters sprawled on short pages, your subtle way of proving that brilliant writing isn’t all Hemingway, James and Faulkner (all of which I never liked anyway).
And I loved you when I met you again briefly – always briefly – when I happened upon What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, many years later, my second go-around in higher education. Your consistency, your immediacy, your sparseness and weight, the simple way you hinted at necessary beauty dancing with reality.
And I loved you again, today, loved you very much in fact, because you – you, genius, you (of all people) – understand why I can’t, don’t, won’t write so many days, showing up to the desk as I might only to leave drained and empty-handed. Understand why this may be the wrong time for the right thing. And, nevertheless, understand why I must write.
And that is because, as you say, we will be “moved off the peg just a little from where we were before. Our body temperature will have gone up, or down, by a degree. Then, breathing evenly and steadily once more, we’ll collect ourselves, writers and readers alike, get up, ‘created of warm blood and nerves’ as a Chekhov character puts it, and go on to the next thing: Life. Always life.”
So, thank you, Raymond Carver, for one- and two-word sentences, for fragments, for doing what you had to do – writing included. And for understanding. You have influenced me – then & today – more than I can say. Indeed.
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