"where is Grace?"

This is the question I ask more times than I can count throughout each day.

In the house, I worry less about what trouble she can find... or make! ...although she has discovered the fun of dropping things in the toilet bowl and flushing.

We keep the bathroom doors closed now.

And she does like to help herself to whatever she can find in the cabinets and settle in a nice spot for between-meals indulgences.

And then, after realizing that her forays would be interrupted if enjoyed where she could be seen...


"Where is Grace?"

Outside there are more places she can go and an untamed world of possibilities for trouble, so, when bent over the flower beds or herbs, my lost-in-thought is broken in a predictable rhythm of momentary panic,

"Where is Grace?"

Big sisters shrug unconcern. "I don't know."

Darting glances around the yard do not always yield relief, so a quick dash to the front of the house, or the storage shed, or garage... sometimes the playhouse.

Unconsciously holding my breath.

There she is. Breathe.

This time, in the garden. Not quite drowning in the watering cans and quite independently being her Daddy's helper.  I give thanks.

For a few more minutes I can slip into my lost-in-thought.


As I do, I think about thinking.

How completely it can absorb me and keep me from an awareness of the here and now, at the same time indelibly shaping the here and now.

I think about the crazy way my thoughts move, quickly taking off down paths unplanned. How easily they tangle.

How thoughts about hurts and struggles and accusations can grab and stab and hold on more tightly than the briers on the black raspberry vines.

How the bitterness that can come from holding onto the hurts is more dangerous for my soul than the venom of the baby copperhead we killed in the garage the other day.

How the battle to keep my thoughts is a battle to keep myself.

"Keep your heart with all vigilance,

for from it flow the springs of life."

- Prov. 4:23

Here in this hidden place of thoughts is where grace is nurtured. Or starved.

"Where is grace?"

I pray for it.

And sometimes I find myself so thickly entangled that I need help. Darting glances around the Providence of here and now, seeking relief.

I call a sister to listen, and, more importantly, to pray.

As we talk and pray, the briers let go, and I can see again the straight path leading to a clearing.

It leads into the garden being watered by grace.

I am able to breathe, and I give thanks.