“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

Relax, everything’s going to be all right; rest, everything’s coming together; open your hearts, love is on the way!
- Jude 2

On this eve of 2010, as I sit with Jason and tend to Jude (who happens to be aching with new teeth and a scratchy throat), I can’t help thinking about the gifts given to me in 2009.

The precious gift of Jude Adam. With his laughter, his smile, his wiggles, his words, even his tears, Jude has turned my black-and-whites into technicolor, made me a momma, and taught me what unconditional love really looks like.

The unwarranted gift of Grace. In her quiet and determined way, Grace stayed close to me on this leg of the journey: in every moment, every turn, every tear of joy, every cry of pain, every unsaid prayer, every question, every doubt, every whisper to Jason, every song sung to Jude, every sleepy day, every tired night, every common cup, every page of the story. All along the way, she kept casting a knowing smile at Mercy and reminding me that even the failing is good.

The supreme gift of Love. I have never given or received or seen such fierce love as I have this year. From my precious, above-and-beyond husband. From my sweet and strong son. Even from my own inconsistent heart. But, ultimately, it’s been the fiery and consuming love of my Abba that has captured me this year.

The enduring gift of Courage. Courage gave me what I can only describe as my life’s purest moment: my beautiful, unmedicated, magical labor and delivery of Jude. It has paved the way for a strength and joy and identity I never knew was possible.

The priceless gift of Brokenness. The changes. The newness. The unexpected. The failures. The gray. The mess. The contradictions. The singing off-key. The missed dance steps. The weariness and work and rest. The not-knowing. The unknown. The fight. The loss. And the falling. There’s something freeing about realizing you were never in control to begin with. And that the breaking is good.

2009 brought me closer to so many things. Closer to love and grace, courage and truth. Closer to my truest identity as Abba’s daughter. In those few and rich quiet moments (and more often in the chaos), more than anything else, this year found me praying a prayer that I’ll carry with me into the new year and always: Abba, I belong to You.

(Thanks, Brennan.)

Because grace makes beauty out of everything.
“Grace,” U2

I was driving down Franklin Road today, my mind caught in a garble of thoughts and contemplations. With just a week to go until we release As Is, my first book, my brain is jam-packed with to-dos, should-haves, and general excitement.

On top of that, throw in the hormones and queasy stomach of this 25-week-pregnant woman who had just come from taking the dreaded glucose tolerance test (pregnant ladies, you understand). And for the cherry on top, let’s add three loads of laundry staring me in the face back at home.

You can bet I was not in my finest form as I unknowingly sped down the rolling lanes a few miles from my home. In fact, I was scowling, feeling the wrinkle between my eyebrows grow deeper with each overwhelming thought.

And that’s where I was, racing down Tennessee byways and mental highways, when I saw the man in the orange sweatpants. If you’re regularly in the Franklin area, you may have seen him. In addition to eye-catching clothes, this older man – probably 60-something – dons a set of old school Walkman headphones and literally dances down the side of the road as he walks.

I slowed down to get a closer look. Then I laughed. Not at him. But at the beauty. At his fluidity and freedom. At the absolute dignity of this spunky little man.

With the memory of his movements still lingering in my mind, I laughed again and suddenly realized I had just encountered grace. This unexpected, unformulated, unplanned moment had found me, me in all my undeserved-ness.

I‘ve just started reading Cathleen Falsani’s brilliant book, Sin Boldly: A Field Guide for Grace. In the first few pages she says, “Life is beautiful. And I’m an idiot who doesn’t deserve any of it. But that’s the thing about grace.”

Those words hit me hard as I slowed to a stoplight half a mile from the dancing man. And it got me thinking about the other graces and beauties I miss. So I started remembering.

Grace has tenderly touched my belly countless times as baby Jude performs his own fetal dance inside my womb.

Grace knelt beside me as I took the Eucharist yesterday, remembering forgiveness and life.

Grace listened in on a good phone call with a friend a couple days ago.

Grace smiled as my midwife hugged me and told me to call anytime with any questions at all, even if I had just called the day before.

Grace whispered truth to me again and again in a week filled with false accusations.

Grace put her arms around my husband and me as we talked late last evening.

Grace even shushed my racing mind and brushed her fingers through my hair while I slept through the night for the first time in weeks (a grand feat for any pregnant woman, I might add).

Yep, grace has been there in so many moments. In all my moments to be exact. And I’ve been an idiot, too blind to see her. But she has been there. And that’s the thing. Maybe the most important thing. She is always there. The bonus is when I stop my madness to get a whiff of her perfume as she enters the room. Or when I shut my own voice off long enough to hear her sing and sigh. Or when I finally look up to see her dancing down the side of the road in her bright orange sweatpants and Walkman headphones.

Forty-eight hours ago, I stepped off a cramped plane and inhaled the thick Nashville air. Jason and I had spent the previous two weeks traipsing around various European cities and, in Dorothy red-shoe-clicking fashion, I whispered, “There’s no place like home” while lugging travel-worn Vera Bradley carry-ons on my shoulder.

While there were wonderful highlights on this trip, I am the first to admit (with Jason a close second) that I am not the most gracious world traveler. In fact, it doesn’t take much for me to turn into the ugly American, griping about everything from substandard toilets to poor customer service to insane driving to the way people mow you down on the sidewalks.

But rather than throw an entire hemisphere under the bus, I would prefer to spend these few minutes telling you about the extensive graces gifted to me on this journey. Unearned, un-asked-for, unexpected trifles that, when added together, made for a treasure that defined our voyage.

One of those graces came at 1:30 a.m. the night Jason and I flew into Tallinn, Estonia. Our best efforts to plan for transportation hit a kink when our flight to this Eastern European country was delayed by some two hours. We had contacted our hotel about possible taxi service and shuttles, but were still up in the air on how we would get from A to B. And now it was late.

Jason and I clomped our jetlagged legs from plane to customs, doing our damnedest to smile at the scowling agents behind glass windows and look like the perky pictures in our passports. We lumbered to baggage claim where we met our beat-up bags with great relief. Then, as we dragged our hundred-and-some-odd pounds of possessions behind us, we scanned the roadway for available taxis. A crick in my neck made me twist my head and, when I opened my eyes, a little Estonian angel stood before me.

“Jason!” I shouted, “That’s you!” As I pointed, we both made eye contact with the short man holding a sign reading, JASON BARMER.

“That’s me!” Jason repeated, to which our scruffy angel briskly grabbed the roller suitcase from my hand and said, “Follow me.”

We would soon discover these were two of four words our driver knew, the other two being, “No problem.”

Close your eyes, put out your hands: grace, in the form of a vertically challenged Eastern European shuttle driver at 1:30 in the morning.

Another pretty package came the morning I woke up without a voice. Most days, this wouldn’t be such a big deal. I could actually use a day or two where I don’t have to hear my own voice. But this particular day was the day I was singing and leading worship at our friends’ church in Kuressaare. It was about 30 minutes into my silent temper tantrum when the front desk unexpectedly called to tell me I had a massage appointment in 10 minutes.

The 60-minute massage with my non-English-speaking masseuse was one of the best ever, followed by a sauna session where I sweat out more toxins and began to feel my voice come back. After a delightful lunch, a gallon of peppermint herbal tea, and an extended time of prayer with our friends, I picked up a borrowed guitar and sang better and more passionately than I ever have for this charming group of Estonians. (The next day, I really did lose my voice. I’m still working on getting it back.)

Surprise! Grace, in the form of deep acupressure, herbal beverages, friends holding your hand and music.

Smaller, but no less significant graces came, too.

Izzy licking my face
Jason holding my hand
Sleep whenever it would come
Licorice throat lozenges
Chocolate of the darkest sort with ginger essence
Jasmine in the Westminster garden
A pretty pink hat when my hairspray ran out
An empty seat next to us on two flights
St. Mary Abbott’s Church on Kensington High Street
Hyde Park
Randy the flight attendant bringing me hot tea the entire seven-hour trip home

Journey graces are the only thing that got me through the whirlwind two weeks away from quietness, away from familiar comforts, away from clean toilets. But again I say it was a good trip. The trip of a lifetime with our dearest friends and family. A trip we’d take over again.

But sometimes journeys – even exciting, hopeful journeys – are hard. It’s grace that makes them good.