Many Faces of Grace

Lately I have heard the noises in the silence. They are the voices of family, friends, and acquaintances who feel puzzled, unsettled, or disquieted by my public openness.

If you’re new here, this piece pairs with Why I Write — a note on what drives these pages.

The most recent remark came from someone I have known for more than twenty-five years. The phrase I once used for him was “the absence of being.”

He presented himself as a self-professed scholar and worldly voyager—by his own account, a qualified medical professional. Over two and a half decades, I could not reconcile those claims with anything I could verify.

After I spoke plainly about my life, the response I heard was, “Poor Grace.”

During my divorced thirties, I was involved with a man I’ll call M. He told elaborate stories about his background—royal lineage, attendance at a prestigious law school, and, alongside driving a cab, an eye for the finest Italian suits for weekend clubbing.

Masked beneath a polished charm and a striking resemblance to my late father, he carried the controlling arrogance of someone willing to harm and manipulate. That truth revealed itself gradually.

One night, after he fell into an alcohol-heavy sleep and snored loudly on my sofa, a wallet he carried showed a name and identity different from what I had been told. The earlier abusive behavior had already crossed lines, and for a moment I felt a surge of anger that frightened me. I chose safety and distance.

M, like many familiar faces at the weekend clubs where we first met, was part of a circle that moved through those spaces together.

Another name that has clung to me in the mouths of concerned relations is “Public Grace.”

These are the shoes I’ve been fitted with. I walk a jagged road scattered with pitfalls that invite scrutiny and sober reasoning.

Were I a medieval character, I might be flogging myself to a blistered pulp; unless destined for sainthood, it can feel like being chosen for the “woe-is-me” challenges of the cross.

In a modern world that prizes economic wellness and visible results, I am often without the kind of tangible evidence that satisfies observers; my lack of virtuous silence is not read as saintly.

Becoming Grace @ 57

There is an ego that seeks to carve a niche. By reading my blogs or viewing my 57th birthday video, there is enough public information to form bias, prejudice, pity, or applause.

In December 2012, the public Grace—without apology—asked for help. It was a distressed SOS to family and friends. Dressed in elegant style and presenting a polished image, my truth may have looked suspicious to some.

My closest family members and friends were, at times, the most critical and the most generous—in thoughts, words, and deeds.

Amid the mix of emotions, there was levity and humor. A relative said, “To be so bold is admirable, but if you plan to invite alms, at least look the part.”

Ultimately, I am Abundant Grace. I do not always know the why, how, or what.

In recent months, I have ached in close harmony with the perils of broken trust, witnessing my own son’s choices, chances, and mysteries.

We are living parallel experiences. The most constructive advice often arrives with the best intentions. I have been guilty of offering thoughts when I was not in the best spirit to give them. The recommendation I hear most is to step back from mothering. The wording varies, but the sentiment is clear.

When I try on a hardened persona and imagine doing harm to an enemy, my son reminds me that this is not my nature.

When I look at the trees through each season, awe rises. Branches that looked like dead twigs blossom in spring. Until they are no longer, they are tended. Somehow, Mother Nature knows; trees seem to know they are never abandoned.

As I move through these preambles, my path is laden with trials, hardships, fears, and unknowns. The innermost part of me— without public appeal or persona—lives, thrives, and breathes because I know who Abundant Grace is. Without Abundant Grace, I would be shattered.

Therefore, but for Divine Grace, I am.

Further reading: Top 10 Discoveries on Social Media — Ten Years Later