When I was growing up, the term “Grace” was used to signify that memorized prayer just before eating dinner.  (I never could figure out why we said Grace only at dinner, when breakfast was “the most important meal of the day.”)

I met my first “Grace” when I was twenty-one.  A white-haired lady who had married into our extended family.  Besides having a penchant for everything pink, Grace showed uncommon, common sense.  She had been widowed twice before she married into our family.  When our uncle died, Grace called the family together to announce that she had placed our Uncle’s ashes, in his urn, on top of her other two husbands.  She would be interred next to all three.  That seemed loving and fair, didn’t it?

My heart-wrenching encounter with true Grace happened when I saw two parents I knew walking in a monument/gravestone yard over thirty years ago.  I remember parking my car and running into the yard.  I blurted out, “What are you doing here?”

“Our son died two weeks ago,” said the mother.

“But he went home and was doing fine,” I said.  As one of the nurses who had cared for their son, I had thought that his current remission would last for  . . .well, much longer than it did.

I remember starting to cry.  I remember their gentle arms around me.  I remember them making sure I was okay to drive home.

Grace.  It often comes with a human price.  Grace is that indefinable quality that seems to extend itself innately.   I seek to exude Grace, but Grace will only appear when my kind heart and actions are in complete agreement.

May mystical, witty, gentle Grace be present wherever you may be.

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