Grace,
though all around us
seems
to be such
an
elusive commodity.
In
the midst of adversity,
it
seemingly disappears
altogether,
our blindness
failing
to detect its
presence
and abundance.
So
it is true for me,
attached
to a tree
of
hanging I.V. bags,
the
roots of which
are
attached to
my
right forearm.
Fr.
Steve, boss, pastor,
priest
enters my room,
eyes
in one observant
sweep
take in my
condition,
avoids
the
subject of physical
well-being
altogether
asking,
“Where’s the grace?”
Stupefied
indignation
wells
within, far better
to
have asked, “Where’s
the
beef,” a question to
which
I had a more
concrete
answer.
Why
the question,
“Where’s
the grace?”
Would
not a more
appropriate
inquiry
be,
“How are you
feeling”
or “How
are
you doing?” Or
is
the general green
pallor
of post-op
nausea
and the
grimace
on my face,
already
makes such
questions
redundant?
“Where’s
the grace?
Well,
where the hell
is
there grace in a
broken
body attached
by
tubes and pumps
to
a lifeline of medications
and
fluids? Where’s the
grace
in knowing that
one’s
life has irrevocably
changed,
and not for
the
better? Where’s
the
grace? Damned
if
I know, but wait …
is
grace like mercury,
elusive,
slippery
silver-white
droplets
of
element when combined
with
other droplets
become
a very potent force?
A
slight raise off
the
pillow, a groan,
a
pause as imagination
sees
a fist, my fist
smashing
his astonished
priestly
face, then
the
utterance,
“I
don’t know
where
the grace is,
but
I suppose I
will
find out.”
Then,
you walk
into
the room,
and I know.
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