Maybe you have these moments. Sitting in the back yard by a fire. The night sky is clear and stark and full of stars, even with light pollution from the town. It’s the end of a long day and my birthday, so it’s a day where memories are ripe, just below the surface, and waiting to bubble up.
Deep breaths, easy smile, a moment of clarity. Sturgill Simpson plays at low volume on the bench next to me.
Moments and memories extend and swirl and I feel like every second of my life to this point, every person I have met, every setback, every success, every heartbreak, everyone and everything I have ever loved, every bit of pain felt, every joy, every experience, all add up to and come together in this one moment, the present moment, and all of it, every bit of it, is gratitude.
And what it looks like is tears running down my face, with no attempt to stop them, because I know I haven’t done anything to deserve any of it; that it’s a gift that I can never repay, all I can do is be in awe of it; all I can do is start to put my finger on it.
But I know what it is.
It is grace.
It’s grace that even though I mess up and do the wrong thing, even though I lose my temper, I can sit under this incredible sky and find solace and a reset button. I can try again.
It’s grace that getting lost in the enormity of the night sky, that I am here and that there is place for me in all of it.
It’s grace that the sun comes up and there is another day and a chance for something new–that I’ve never seen or thought about or encountered before.
Grace maybe begins when we remember. We remember and are grateful for this gift that we can’t earn, but which ought to shape who and how we are in the world. It’s a gift that isn’t for us to to keep to ourselves but to try to extend to someone else.
“Grace is when God is a source of wholeness, which makes up for my failings. My failings hurt me and others and even the planet, and God’s grace to me is that my brokenness is not the final word … it’s that God makes beautiful things out of even my own [stuff].
Nadia Bolz-Weber
I sit in the back yard, next to a fire, under an expansive night sky, and memories and people and life dance with the stars and the flames. Stories swim in my head and they all rise to the sky.
If “prayer is the raising of the heart and mind to God,” (Baltimore catechism), then this fireside chat is prayer, maybe the best kind.
I think of Meister Eckhart, who said, “If the only prayer you said was thank you, that would be enough.”
Thank you.
Maybe grace begins with gratitude.
