If I had to pick a resolution and a word, maybe I would choose Grace. Like the great commandments, all the other resolutions would hang on that word. Grace, grace, grace, in everything I do. Grace for my husband, when he deliberately drives me crazy (And oh yes. He does. Twelve years have taught him where all my buttons are, and when to push them). Grace for my kids, when they fall short, as they so often do, as so often kids- humans- do. Grace for the people that hurt me, whether intentionally or otherwise. And more than anything, more than any of these things I've just listed: Grace for myself. Oh God, how I long to give myself some grace. Some wiggle room, to make mistakes and recover, to fall and get back up. I hold myself to these tight, rigid lines. Don't set a toe over it. That's a mistake. It's like those games we used to play as kids. All the cushions, everything on the floor was an island. The carpet was molten lava, alligators, sharks. My whole life feels like I'm balancing on the edge of a couch cushion, trying not to fall prey to the carpet full of sharks. And instead of striving to hold myself to the standard, I give up and topple over, accepting defeat as my certain fate. I'm not the only one. You must be out there, too. How about, instead of toppling, we clasp each other tight and save each other from falling? How about we cheer each other on, be each others' biggest fan? How about, instead of staring at our blank, black ceilings every night, going over and over and over in our minds all the ways we missed it today: Shouldn't have done this, should have done that, and why did I have to lose it with my kids AGAIN? Why did I ignore that load of laundry AGAIN? How about, instead of all that, we lie down with grace? Grace as our pillow, grace as our blanket, grace as the blank, black ceiling over our heads, the ceiling that absolutely holds no records of our wrongs. Oh, doesn't it make the hope well up in your tired soul? Mine just leaped. Deep calling to deep, in the roar of this waterfall that I've created for myself, this wall of tons of pounds of water that beats me down to nothing, that catches me in its whirlpools and spins me head over heels until I feel like I'll never find my way upright again. This is what I long for, and have never fully managed to extend to myself, although I can extend it to another in a heartbeat. Grace.
Tonight we are getting snow. The kids have gone out to play in it no less than three times, each time coming in after 20 minutes talking about how cold they are. My little Virginia Peninsula kids love the novelty of the snow but maybe not the extended reality. Cold is cold. They come in with red noses and cheeks, asking me to peel their gloves from their chapped, numb hands. Stand in front of the gas heater and shiver and shudder and grin and talk about the next time they'll go out. I love snow, from inside. I do not like it from outside. I don't like being cold, I don't like being cold and wet, and I don't like being cold, wet, and having to clean up the muddy, slushy mess that they drag in with them. But I remember loving it when I was their age, my mom tying empty bread bags over our feet and hands before we went out to keep our socks dry. Around here, our snowmen are full of twigs and bits of dried grass, as the snow usually doesn't get deep enough to roll up pure white. But the kids have talked of nothing else all night, this snowman they'll build tomorrow. They went out at midnight to scope out their surroundings, decide on the best locale and rushed back in to make sure we had at least one carrot for a nose.
Basketball has consumed our life lately. Basketball, basketball, basketball. Ashton started at the end of last year, and now has games and practices at least four nights a week. Jeremy is talking about getting him signed up for baseball. And after that, football. I don't know if I'm cut out to be a sports mom. I like my evenings, being a night owl, and having them monopolized so often is draining. Tonight was a welcome reprieve from the basketball wheel, since the snow prevented the game. We're huddled in the Box House, the heat blasting on every 20 minutes or so. I'm sitting in bed propped up against a pillow, one leg tucked under me and the other sticking out from under the blanket. This is scientifically proven to moderate body temperature, right? Jeremy is beside me watching a movie with his wireless headphones on, and the kids are tucked away in their rooms, ostensibly to go to bed, but I know they're relishing the unexpected break from school, by reading books and playing video games. I'm letting them. I may not always win the Mom of the Year award, but I know to sometimes let them have their cake and eat it too.
This night is an embodiment of grace. Little breaks to fill in the cracks that constant busyness creates. Little gifts to the kids who wish for snow all year long. Little grace, little staying in nights, little memories that turn out to be not so little. On a night like this, it's easy for me to see grace all around me. To reach out and touch it, grasp it, pull it close to my chest and feel it there, heavy and warm and safe.
So let's do this for each other. When we can't see the grace for ourselves, too weak or tired or disgusted to grope for it, let's be that warm weight for each other. Let me bring you that grace, wrap it around you like a blanket, point you to that blank slate of a ceiling that you would otherwise be staring at in despair. Let me make this my resolution, if I have any at all: to show you how to give yourself grace. And you, in turn, can show it to me.
{{Weekly Photo Dump}}
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