I’ve been singing grace’s many songs these last 6 months. The last time I wrote about grace, here, was 6 months ago, June 30, 2022.
My best friend, Marissa (yes, she’s Rissa Jade, of Womxn in Progress), visited from Michigan to see our favorite band, the National. It’s been years since we’ve seen them together, the first at Summerfest a few years ago in rainy Milwaukee, Wisconsin, my hometown. This time, it’s August in Colorado.
It’s the day of the show, and it starts at a strangely early, specific time of 7:40. As we meander from Denver to Dillon, I realize I have less than 10% a tank of gas. Fueled by passion, not fuel, our life talk turns quiet as we weave down the hills, no station in sight.
Mercifully, we see a Shell, and I give my car the most gas of its 11-year life. Once we find free(!) parking, we have some melted chocolate, and head for the stage.
Bartees Strange covers the National for their last song, and within minutes, our favorite lead is humming, the Dressner boys strumming along.
Mar can feel it, this will be her chance to get “Berningered”, and she does, to what was once her least fave, “Pink Rabbits.” We’re swaying, jumping up and down, crying. This is what it feels like to be alive.
Matt wades through the crowd, and the tech guy manages the mic’s cord, wrapping, spinning, as Matt’s dancing, hopping. Children of every age dance, too. There are no rules; everyone is one.
Matt miraculously arrives back on stage in 1 piece. He starts shimmying across the guard rail. He grabs the cowboy hat of the proud dad next to me, then grabs both of my hands, to hold him steady. And sings for 2 minutes: “Graceless.”
“…in a vase… faithless… it’s a waste.”
And maybe I felt so alive because we barely made it.
Or maybe because one month before, I was trying to sing Grandma’s favorite, “Amazing Grace” one last time. I was able to choke down a eulogy but could barely sing this song of compassion.
Where was the grace when my person died? When I felt so incredibly alone, across the country, with no one to hug but myself?
Yet when Grandma’s service is done, people tell me I sound like a pastor. I can barely eat the ham and cheese. But my godson, now somehow 5 years old, runs across the room, right into my arms: “Kaylie’s here.” A hug I needed for months.
It didn’t matter that the last time I saw Colin was 4 months prior. It was the last time I saw Grandma. And the first time I saw Colin’s brother Finn, just a few weeks old. Grace: to kiss, to hug, to laugh, to listen. To be still in this circle of life and death and everything in between.
As Colin and I play with the Noah’s ark kit that is too young for him, we don’t read any of the church’s Christian fairy tales. The cousins I’ve known for years but barely know as PEOPLE ask about Colorado. Grace.
And then months later, Magdalena (of Womxn in Progress, here) and I are having an impromptu photoshoot. The vintage festival’s goods are far too expensive, but the sun is free. I’m in mustard leggings I’m wearing as tights, and she tells me to walk, one foot directly in front of the other: I’m “graceful dancing” across Larimer Square.
I sing to myself, “Keep dancing.” Somehow, Blue October’s words come back, despite years of neglecting their tunes, in favor of the National, Interpol, Avett Brothers.
As Magdalena takes photos, she reminds me to let myself feel the frustration and joy and grief of this year. She finds the light, literally, as I stare: head-on, confident, ready. Figuratively, in our conversations.
And so this new home has glimmers of grace, too. Strutting and struggling, singing and sorrowing, grace is here. It’s still here.
What a wonderful tribute to grace. This reminds me that I live by grace; God’s grace, the grace of family and friends, and grace to live one day at a time. Life is full of sorrow and pain, but it is also full of love and joy at the same time.
Thank you so much for the kind comment, Cathy! There is SO much grace in the world. Sometimes, you have to search for it, ask for it, or create it. Grateful for you, friend.