TOUCHSTONES OF GRACE

by Kelli de Sante’ 

GRACE! Oh the beauty of that small single word. Just hearing it brings forth images of unconditional love, beauty, reverence, and humility. The most endearing images of that oh so magical word ~ grace, are those of my Mother who found it within herself to be a shining reflection of grace expressed throughout her lifetime. I remember vividly her gentle manner, her expressions of humility and gratitude as she would so sweetly sing the words of “Amazing Grace” while toiling, day after day, in the tobacco fields of South Carolina. Row after row, she would bellow out the words from deep within her soul. Singing to her heart’s content. It was a favorite song in the South. Many a Sunday morning’s sermon ended with the sound of those sweet words. A calling of sorts, a call for God’s good grace, just the right words to bring us humbly back into our heart center. A persuasive reminder, lest we forget where all good things come from ─ but for the grace of God go I. Yes, this was my early introduction to grace, sweet memories, which held more promise than I could have ever imagined.

I searched my life to give credit for grace expressed and I found that in the sum total of any given day, grace outweighed the moments of me. The question became, “Where in my life was there not grace?” All of my knowledge, education, hard work, plotting, and planning was nothing without it. I recalled, time after time, just when I thought I had fallen short of some goal, some dream, or some wanting; a miracle would appear from nowhere to save the day. A phone would ring, an unexpected check would arrive in the mail, a job offer would come from some unlikely place, or the kindness of a stranger would be so great as to humble me to the very core of my being. Yes, I could fill an entire book with all the unexplainable, powerful, life altering, and loving gifts of grace that have occurred during my lifetime. I have chosen three “grace filled memories,” which I hope will be of some comfort and inspiration to you.

Visitors From Afar!

My earliest experience of what I would clearly define as an act of grace came when I was around the age of five. The first part of this story isn’t very pretty; but the miracle that it brought has had a most profound impact on my life over the years. This is one of those unexplainable events. So unexplainable, that in my youth, I dared not believe it at all. Experiences like this have followed me throughout my life and I’ve been very protective of myself in sharing them. I now realize, that hiding the truth of life’s most loving gifts of grace, has been equal to hiding my light from the world. I hope my sharing them will help bring you to your own acceptance and expression of the divine.

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It was a beautiful breezy spring day on the inland waterway. From time to time, fishing boats from the nearby harbor streamed by on their way down the channel. Occasionally, a tugboat pushing pulpwood to the nearby paper plant in Georgetown, would toot its horn to say hello. The tugboat company had a storage yard just across the field from our house, so most of the crew knew us. We loved for them to come and visit. They would bring us kids candy and stay just long enough to rave about my Mom’s sweetened ice tea and pecan pie.

My younger brother and I were playing under the magnolia tree this particular day. I was pulling him in the little red wagon while Mom was hanging out clothes. My older brothers and sisters were in school. There were seven of us in all. It was almost time for the school bus to arrive when Dad’s old pickup truck swung into the yard, dust flying everywhere from the long dirt driveway coming up to the house, I could hardly wait to greet him. But as he bolted out of the truck in a rage, I was instantly afraid. He was often in a rage about something and this day was especially heated. I don’t recall the words of anger or the reason behind them, I only remember the 24 hours that followed.

As he screamed and yelled vulgar obscenities, my mother’s graceful spirit withered like a dying flower. Her gentleness collapsed under the weight of his harshness. At some point, enraged, Dad ducked his head back into the pickup, and re-emerged with rifle in hand. A split second later the sound of gunfire rang through my tiny little head. For a moment, I was frozen in time. As my Dad came closer to my Mom, she reached for me and pulled me tightly to her breast, all the while screaming, “Stop, before you hurt the kids!” It didn’t seem to faze him though; his rage was far too out of control to stop now.

In the next few moments, more gunshots rang out as he shot at Mom’s feet. There seemed to be no escape. Paralyzing terror was growing inside of me, consuming me. Moments later, Mom and I were running for our lives, across the yard, into the open field, through the pulpwood yard and then deep into the woods with gunshots pinging at our heels. The branches from the thick scrub slashed at my bare legs, tearing at my skin. Mom tried to calm me, as she frantically dragged my petite body every step of the way.

Finally, we came to a small stream. On the edge there was a large tree that had been downed from a winter ice storm. Mom pulled me down onto the damp earth and we slithered our way up underneath the huge trunk. There we waited for hours, quiet, not a sound. It was wet and cold. I shivered, trying to keep silent and all the while wondering what might be happening to my little brother, terrified of the thoughts that came rushing in. Had my older brothers and sisters returned from school to care for him? Was Dad still in a rage? Were they safe? Or….I couldn’t bear to think of it any more.

Hours passed. We had to wait until dark to make our way back out of the woods. Cold, hungry and frightened, we somehow made it to the highway a mile away. Mom waved a car down and told them to take us to my uncle’s home. My aunt and uncle, whom I loved dearly, were very sweet and caring people. They lived in a beautiful white house on a sprawling tobacco farm, a hundred acres or more, I’m sure. Compared to our house, their home was like a mansion, indoor plumbing and all. I felt so safe in their home. I silently wished I belonged to them. They bathed, fed and hugged me and tried to calm my little soul.

When they thought I had fallen off to sleep, I heard them telling my Mom that she would have to go home the next morning. They told her that she and my Dad would just have to work this out, that all families had problems and she had made her bed so she would just have to lie in it. I didn’t want to ever go home. I wanted Mom and me to just stay there forever. Safe, secure and nurtured. But morning came and with it came its wrath.

We lived in an old house built on stilts, so the porch stood some three or four feet above the ground. My older brothers, sisters and I had built a secret hideaway underneath the porch that was about ten feet by ten feet square and four feet deep. We had dug out steps going down into it, carved out beds and tables from the clay dirt and tossed old blankets over them to shield us from the earths’ dampness. I remember many times during those early years when that little hideaway underneath the front porch became my personal sanctuary. There were nights when living in that house would become so terrifying, that crawling out of my bedroom window and hiding in that dark damp place seemed much safer. This day was one of them.

I sat there, curled up like a newborn baby on a carved out bed in our little hideaway, elbows clapped around my knees, eyes closed, hands over my ears, trying not to hear the screams. I don’t really know how long the fighting went on that morning, I only know that I was scared beyond belief, my tiny body paralyzed with fear. And then, right there underneath that porch, a miracle happened. Something stirred around me and I opened my tear-filled eyes to find that help had arrived. Three of them!

They came dressed in funny white clothes with long hair and beards down to their chest. I thought I recognized them from the pictures in my Mom’s big Bible. And, so I did! They looked upon me with the most loving eyes, their voices quiet and gentle. And for those few moments, silence fell around me. I could only hear their words. They told me not to be afraid, that they would always be with me and protect me. All I had to do was call upon them and believe. They told me to love my Father and Mother and remember to keep this love in my heart no matter what, and love would see me through.

          Dad’s voice rang out, “Girl where are you?” And, in that instant, they vanished. I didn’t know then that what I had seen was a vision, a gift of God’s loving grace. That day, standing before me, bigger than life itself, were God’s messengers of love, light and HIS good grace. The love that I felt in those moments and the words they spoke have been a comfort to me countless times throughout the years. In those darkest hours, my life was forever changed.

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