Moments of Glad Grace

In his immortal and haunting poem "When You Are Old" W.B. Yeats talks about moments:

"How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,"

 

-excerpt from "When You Are Old" by W.B. Yeats  

 

The best parts of life are such small "moments of glad grace."

When I was writing my memoir about my son’s adoption, The Michael Chronicles, God gave me a huge blessing. It took me some time to recognize it. Reading over the old blogs gave me back those years with my mother and my children, the early, joyful years of our family life, a life I knit together carefully.

Memory is a funny thing.

I tend to remember in vivid, horrifying detail the terrible things that happen to me. I remember standing next to my grandfather’s grave and feeling the most profound sense of sadness, so profound I could barely move. I remember driving home after my father died, sobbing in the car. I remember crying after I was laid off from my job…

I have other memories though, thank God.

Certain small moments stick out in my mind. I remember being hyper aware of where I was and what I was doing during those instances. I recall the sunlight, the smell in the air, the certainty that I needed to hold onto these small moments of grace, that make life worth living.

Snuggling with Papa. I remember how it felt to be held on my grandfather’s lap while he read Heidi to me. The feel of his soft wool shirt on my cheek. The smell of Old Spice. His soft tenor voice and the gentleness that contrasted with his enormous and powerful body.

Lying in the ocean's salty embrace. My father liked to walk out into the ocean, past the breaking waves, with me floating alongside him, feeling the buoyancy of the water, the sunlight on my face, the sound of the birds. Dad was always so hyper, so frenetic, but walking along the ocean floor with me showed me his calm self, at peace in the water.

Sitting down to eat at the polished pine table in my grandmother’s dining room. The smell of fried chicken, biscuits, and green beans. The sweet tea with lemon. Everyone passed the bowls and platters of food hand to hand. Gentle joking. My father always told my grandmother that her green beans were the BEST, and he would eat them all if nobody stopped him.

A late afternoon at my parents’ house on the lake in East Tennessee. Brother and I were home from college. We threw a frisbee back and forth in the front yard. Mom and Dad rode around on the riding lawn mower, laughing at Mom’s trying to drive the mower, the dogs trotting alongside them. I remember a whisper in my ear, insistently saying Remember this.

Riding through Atlanta in a taxi after the ordeal of two long international flights, my small son on the seat beside me. After the monochrome Asian city in Kazakhstan and the cold terror of possibly missing our flight in the Frankfurt airport, the sight of my hometown seemed like paradise. We rode through the neighborhood and my eyes hungrily regarded the pink and red azaleas, the white camellias, the magnolia blossoms, the towering pines. I thought, This is for you, my darling. This eden, this city I love welcomes you with beauty and love awaits us in the sacred space. Home. 

Here you will eat your fill. You will play in the sunshine. You will grow strong. You will learn. You will know the fullness of love and I will rejoice because I have finally done something I can be really proud of – I became your mom.  

All those past moments, the ones etched in pain, the ones etched in peace, the tears, the drudgery, the aching muscles and aching heart – all of them led to my beautiful, odd little family. 

Pay attention, Reader. Please. It’s not about money, or Likes, or accolades. Pay attention to the small moments. 

Remember walking down the street holding your daddy’s hand? Remember the scent of Mom's perfume, and her kiss on your face? The excitement just as you meet someone you know you could fall in love with? Hold onto those moments of glad grace.

Never take the small moments for granted.