I love what Anne Lamott says about the simple act of saying grace. . .
No matter how you say it, grace can transform an ordinary meal into a celebration—of family, love, and gratitude.
We didn't say grace at our house when I was growing up because my
parents were atheists. I knew even as a little girl that everyone at
every table needed blessing and encouragement, but my family didn't ask
for it. Instead, my parents raised glasses of wine to the chef: Cheers.
Dig in. But I had a terrible secret, which was that I believed in God, a
divine presence who heard me when I prayed, who stayed close to me in
the dark. So at 6 years old I began to infiltrate religious families
like a spy—Mata Hari in plaid sneakers.
One of my best friends was a Catholic girl. Her boisterous family bowed
its collective head and said, "Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. …"
I was so hungry for these words; it was like a cool breeze, a polite
thank-you note to God, the silky magnetic energy of gratitude. I still
love that line.
I believed that if your family said grace, it meant you were a happy
family, all evidence to the contrary. But I saw at certain tables that
an improvised grace could cause friction or discomfort. My friend Mark
reports that at his big southern childhood Thanksgivings, someone always
managed to say something that made poor Granny feel half dead. "It
would be along the lines of ‘And Lord, we are just glad you have seen
fit to keep Mama with us for one more year.' We would all strain to see
Granny giving him the fisheye."
I noticed some families shortened the pro forma blessing so they could
get right to the meal. If there were more males than females, it was a
boy chant, said as one word:
"GodisgreatGodisgoodletusthankHimforourfoodAmen." I also noticed that
grace usually wasn't said if the kids were eating in front of the TV, as
if God refused to listen over the sound of it.
And we've all been held hostage by grace sayers who use the opportunity
to work the room, like the Church Lady. But more often, people simply
say thank you—we understand how far short we must fall, how selfish we
can be, how self-righteous, what brats. And yet God has given us this
marvelous meal.
It turns out that my two brothers and I all grew up to be middle-aged
believers. I've been a member of the same Presbyterian church for 27
years. My older brother became a born-again Christian—but don't ask him
to give the blessing, as it can last forever. I adore him, but your food
will grow cold. My younger brother is an unconfirmed but freelance
Catholic.
So now someone at our holiday tables always ends up saying grace. I
think we're in it for the pause, the quiet thanks for love and for our
blessings, before the shoveling begins. For a minute, our stations are
tuned to a broader, richer radius. We're acknowledging that this food
didn't just magically appear: Someone grew it, ground it, bought it,
baked it; wow.
We say thank you for the miracle that we have stuck together all these
years, in spite of it all; that we have each other's backs, and
hilarious companionship. We say thank you for the plentiful and
outrageous food: Kathy's lox, Robby's bûche de Noël. We pray to be
mindful of the needs of others. We savor these moments out of time, when
we are conscious of love's presence, of Someone's great abiding
generosity to our dear and motley family, these holy moments of
gratitude. And that is grace.
From Anne Lamott's newest book, Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers.