On my 38th birthday, I listed some goals for the upcoming year. They included easy things like drinking more lattes, getting more massages and wearing a lot of hats. (Literally, not figuratively.) Easy stuff. Setting the bar low, if you will.
One I did not mention is to be a better person. Vague? Yes. Achievable? Hopefully. But defining what exactly I mean proves challenging. Do I want to be nicer? Lots of room to improve there. More patient? Um-hum. Let the people who speed past and then want to cut over at the merge go in front of me? Even I have my limits.
So last night I was rereading a sweet note my childhood minister had sent me. He had known my mom quite well and continues, 20 years later, to still mention her in one of his sermons. He wrote, “Your mother’s kindness and grace has always stayed with me.”
A-ha! That’s what I’m talking about. Grace.
Sadly, the only time someone has referred to me grace-wise was in sarcasm. (As in, “Way to go, grace” when I wipeout.) Though anti-klutz grace is certainly welcome, I’d really like some of the kind, patient, calming grace that seems much more rare.
My mother had grace – an abundance of it. Sadly, my dad’s biting wit and sarcasm must have beaten it up in utero. Snarky comments? Got ‘em. Patience with annoying people? Not so much.
To wrap up this ramble, I’m happy to have actually defined my goal. As with all goals, the defining is easy, the doing is hard. Eight months until 39. I'm not sure that's enough time. Maybe grace should be on the 40 plan.