No Grace For You.

I cooked and cleaned and shopped and listened and supported and made a Christmas Eve party for my brother’s family, a big Christmas for us.  Lots and lots of work.

At Christmas dinner, my mother started to tuck in without anyone saying grace.  I spoke up, and she began to mumble something about thankfulness.

I stopped her and said that while I thought gratiude was important — we should have that attitude every day — that Christmas was for miracles, for the magic that the Puritans feared when they banned it.  I started to talk about moving beyond expectation, about the light from within, and such.

My sister worked hard to listen.

My mother started cutting her meat.  She tuned out.

I saw this and started mumbling, trying to indicate to my sister that she should look at my mother. When my sister saw my mother ignoring the grace, I stopped.

My father, sweet & slightly confused, said “Amen,” even though I never got to that point.

Once I was quiet, my mother started telling a banal story about some orphans from Kahzikstan and their first Christmas here in their new church.   I just sat and ate without grace.

She later sincerely thanked me for everything I do, everything. Just not everything I am, everything inside of me, which doesn’t deserve grace.

No grace for you.  It’s Christmas.

Time to go take out the garbage.  The truck comes early, you know.

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