About a year ago, or maybe even more, I got off the phone with my sister Tracey and my cheeks were burning; she had vented some frustration to me over my seemingly endless and nauseating amounts of grace and forgiveness. She had reached her max as far as extending grace to people in her own life and she called me up needing an accomplice, not a counselor.
Months later, I get it. I feel like I’ve woken up in the same way that I woke up when I heard my dad say, “Suzy thinks she can save the world.” So last Friday night when I called Tracey, she knew I needed an accomplice. Well, and I pretty much stated exactly what I planned to do and what time she should meet me and where. “I’ll bring the can of tuna,” I told her and she replied with, “I’ll be the driver.”
I ran out of grace.
Of course I’m not going to smear tuna under the driver’s side handle of anyone’s car door, and of course I’m not going to list off all the horrible injustices that have been done to me because a) I’d open up a can of something a lot worse than tuna and b) I’d probably get my ass sued faster than I can hide my huge hair behind a parked car. But mostly I’m not going to be an asshole in return because it makes me feel good to not be an asshole, and I like making myself feel good (what’s a post without a double entendré?!).
It’s not about grace. Because being gracious would mean being forgiving, moving toward the assholes, allowing them to move toward me, sharing a meal with them without secretly putting pubic hair into their spaghetti sauce, things like that. No. No no no. Grace is lovely. Grace is strong. Grace is a gift, it’s a champion, it’s beautiful. But sometimes it runs out, and that’s okay.
Or maybe that’s just what grace is: not putting pubic hair into someone’s spaghetti sauce.
Do you have any good revenge stories?
Do you know how to speak Pig Latin?
Tracey is going to get me back for this… <3 <3