By Andrea Lingle

For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel: In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength. But you refused. Isaiah 30:15

She is smack dab in the middle of losing her baby teeth. One of her front teeth is growing back in, but the other is a cheerful gap. Her knees are knobby and bruised from jumping off swings and bouncing on the trampoline. Her fine ash brown hair is past her shoulders now; finally recovering from her self-administered pixie-cut phase. She is a full-fledged girl. My last baby has emerged into early childhood.

Am I sad? I don’t know how to answer that. She never let me cling too tightly. I cheered her on at eight months when she beat both of her brothers out for our earliest walker. She tells me she will be just a minute as she quickly applies my mascara to her lashes. She is girlhood, dancing.

Parenthood is a terrifying undertaking. Things are moving, changing, evolving, looping back around exactly sixteen minutes before you are ready. You stand in the middle of it all, trusting that the joy that filled the sky as the first birds tested their wings, will enfold these beings-of-your-soul-and-heart, and bear them gently.

Trust is hard though. It doesn’t always seem clear that it is a good idea. After all, sometimes things don’t work out. Sometimes the hero doesn’t struggle through to the end, victorious. Sometimes the diagnosis is cancer or the business fails or the last minute comes and goes without a miracle. Sometimes we have to sit with our children or spouses or friends or neighbors while hot tears salt our weary faces and hearts. Daring to trust implies that there is something trustworthy toward which we bend our trust, and sometimes we seem very much alone.

This thing called life requires a great deal of courage.

I have been composting since I was six. If my mom and dad composted before that, I don’t remember it. I can remember carrying bin-fulls of table scraps to the back yard, chattering to myself the whole time when my teeth were gapped and my knees knobby and bruised. Who knows what that little girl chatted to herself about. Now when I take out my scraps, I do so as an act of trust. There is something that will take these bits and pieces of effort and turn them into life and nourishment. I do not know if I will be able to meet tomorrow with aplomb, but I can toss these banana peels on the compost heap knowing that there is a vitality to life that will meet me tomorrow with something like joy. Something like growth. Something like courage.

Do I dare call that grace?

I kissed her forehead goodnight tonight. I asked her if she wanted me to start her music for her. She said no, she would just read for a while before going to sleep. Me too, sweetie. Me too. Sleep bravely. Love well. Grace and joy keep you through the night.

Yes, I think I will dare. Oh joyful impulse of life, I name you:

Grace.

Writing Prompts:

It is time that I found…
The last time I saw you…
This time I will…
Once upon a time…
Nothing ever happens twice…
There is more than one way to understand…
If you hadn’t been there…

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