Holding Space, Grace

 Not going to lie, Elder makes me insane six ways to Sunday.

Even so, his life is a master class in what grace looks like. Tonight, I picked him up from work; the original plan was I would take him to our church for ashes later in the evening. I came up with a different idea as I drove to pick him up.

I proposed another church—one he knew, and more importantly, had an elevator. He didn’t need convincing: that became the plan. He found us a parking spot and didn’t balk at the walk that came with it. We arrived late to a packed church and found places to stand in the back. I became aware of someone looking our way. Elder whispered the who and rejoined “I want to say hi after.” 

He looked at me carefully. “I have feelings about this,” I muttered back. He stared at me. “Mom, I’m asking you.”

I harrumphed. I’ve written plenty about the folks who have ill-used and/or ill-treated elder over the years, and one of them fell in that camp. I’d sooner see them burn in hell than put on a face.

“Mom,” elder reiterated, “I am asking you.”

Well, fuck. It’s not like he doesn’t know why I feel what I feel; we’ve discussed it ad nauseum. He wants to go say hello, and as far as he’s concerned, we’re a unit, and he’s not doing the thing without me.

Also? We’re in church. 

What am I always saying about walking the walk?

So. We do the thing. He’s happy. It doesn’t kill me.

As crazy as he makes me, he has a heart that is huge, full of grace, forgiveness, and mercy.

He can teach me a thing or two.