A Gift of Grace

It lifts the fog and calms the waters

My beloved cat Maggie crossed the rainbow bridge last week.

She was the 16-year-old dowager queen of the house. Even in her waning months, sick with what eventually became leukemia, her big energy reigned. She let her two little brothers, Fitzgerald and Hemingway—teenagers by comparison—think they were the alphas, but they knew who held sway. She lost her voice long ago, but the occasional high-pitched squeak from her set things in order.

On the day when I came to the heartwrenching decision for her, the boys flanked her, loved on her, and gave her space in a resolved, calmer, more committed way. I’ve no doubt they knew how sick she was long before I did.

Debbie went with me, the strong sister support I needed, even as she cried alongside me as we caressed Maggie while her amazing vet—who also cried—guided her across the veil.

The heartache was massive, but the overwhelming thing I felt was grace. Palpable, instantaneaous grace.

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This week's word: Grace

Later that day at home, Maggie’s energy still filled the quiet house. Fitz and Hemmie hid under the bed for a long while and then wandered the rooms before settling next to me on the couch. I felt at peace when I went to sleep, even as I reached for her a few times during the night.

The next morning, I started in on the morning routines, feeding the boys, sadly with two bowls on the floor instead of three, got my cup of coffee, and started to sit down with my journal. It was then I noticed. Maggie’s energy was still there, but it was softer. Settled. It was a profound sweetness.

It was Grace. Nothing short of, and it was incredible.

Grace. What a blessed word.

It's a noun meaning "filled with the divine. God’s favor or help.” Or, “a disposition to kindness and compassion.” Or, “a divine virtue.”

Gracility. Goodwill. Benevolence. Blessing. Gracefulness. Divine influence. Dignity.

“Grace is the sweetest kind of surrender: a surrender to the force of goodness that is greater that yourself.”— William Blake

A fog was cleared that day, one that had permeated everything. Grace is what lifted the fog. Enough to see it for what it was.

A fog, a thick foggy pause, is what I, along with my family, have been living inside for a few months now.

It harkened back to a WTF moment

The moment when the fog descended on us, it was an afternoon in late July, when we gathered with Mom and Dad in their living room. They’d called us for a family meeting.

“I have lung cancer,” my mother said as her voice shook and she held Dad’s hand, the hand that had gently led her to the doctor when her deep rattled cough refused to go away.

WTF? How could this happen to my non-smoking, gentle, healthy-as-a-horse mother with more zest for life than the rest of us combined?

The fog descended around us even as we moved quickly inside of it. Deliberate movement. More tests and biopsies, second opinions, research upon research, amazing guidance from friends in the know, a set treatment protocol of chemo and radiation, and a promising prognosis. “It’s curative,” they tell us.

And, still, we’re in the foggy pause as we grab hold of the optimism.

“I think I’m in denial,” I said a couple of weeks ago in the ongoing conversation with Debbie.

“Me too,” Debbie said quietly into the phone.

Denial is a regular co-inhabitant in the fog.

We read and studied as much as we all could for what was coming, what possibly was coming, what we had no idea was coming. Because “everyone’s different and no one reacts the same.”

It seemed like it took forever for her treatment to finally begin, which added density to the fog. A density that took up brain space and edged other life things out.

Dad and I exchanged looks of shared fear and determination as we pondered our impatience in the foggy pause. He echoed my thoughts out loud, “We want to get it going so we can beat this.” I love how with Mom and Dad it’s always “we.” Always. “We’re going to beat this.”

We are all now a part of the “we.”

I asked Mom last week as she began treatment, “What are you thinking about, Mom?”

“I’m terrified,” she said, her voice strong and clear.

“What are you terrified of?”

“The unknown.”

Ah, that was it. That’s the denseness that engulfs us. The fog of the unknown.

Being inside the fog is a swirling soup of emotions: fear, hope, anger, denial, anticipation, insecurity, let’s go energy, and a commitment to see it through, to be in it, to be transparent and safe, to be strong and vulnerable.

“Me too,” I said.

Then came the gift of Grace

From our sweet Maggie. I say “our” because my family adopted her too, in the fun and sweet way a dog family loves a cat.

The moment whenever my mother entered my home, Maggie was on her. Glued to her side, the purring recipient of endless caresses.

Maggie and Mom met each other with their graceful energy. They met at grace. How beautiful is that?

In Maggie, grace alleviated the pain. Grace was permission to surrender. To let go.

In my resilient mother’s case, it’s grace under fire. Grace under the blaze of cancer treatments. Her strength is grace in action, and I’m in awe of it every day.

"Courage is grace under pressure.”— Earnest Hemingway

For me, Grace whispered a sigh that cleared the fog. In an instant. In that blessed same moment.

I now know when I ask for and surrender to grace, a light comes on and things are clearer.

It was grace that lifted the fog, and I believe grace will be the beacon to guide us on this journey with Mom. Grace doesn’t do away with all of the swirling fits and emotions inside the fog, but it makes space for faith, for surrendering to what is, to being in the moment, and to listening with an open heart and mind.

Grace is the gentle force inside my heroic father as he embraces Mom and stands sentinel for all of us.

The day after Maggie’s rainbow bridge day, I took Mom for her treatment. I felt grace carry us with ease, and grace greeted her in the compassion and kindness of her radiation team.

Grace assuages fear. It calms chaotic waters and your disquieted spirit.

Grace is everywhere when you’re paying attention.

Grace is the space that you feel when you let the blue sky in, when you appreciate the clouds and the waves and the colors and the energy of the expansive sky. When you allow that in, that's grace.

It’s quiet clarity.

Grace is a constant prayer, a fervent prayer; and grace is a state of being and a way of living.

Grace walks alongside you through the toughest moments.

Grace can carry and guide your challenging conversations.

Grace can transform a moment, can transform an environment, can transform your presence.

It’s calling on your inner light and love to solidify your strength.

Can you imagine what a difference it would make if we all asked for and stood for grace this week during the US elections? Feels like a good move to meet the chaos.

“Grace is given not because we have done good works, but in order that we may be able to do them."— Saint Augustine

So, Maggie, the cat of a hot tin roof. Maggie May. Maggielicious. Thank you for it all. For the honor of being your mama for all of your life and for a quarter of mine. And, now, for opening the portal in my heart, mind, and spirit, to the grace that lifted the fog and will light the way with and for my mama.

I wish you grace this week, to calm your waters. Breathe it in. Pray for it. For yourself and the world.

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts.

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Journal Prompt

Prompt: Ask for grace. Where in your life can you receive and lean into grace? Keep a running list because grace is ongoing.

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I hope you have a great week filled with grace. And, kindness.

Keep creating, abundantly,

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