Grace

I passed a sign today that said "Grace - 1 Mile" with a big arrow pointing to the right.  

It was a legitimate sign — not a piece of cardboard with the words written in Sharpie.  City approved.  Made of metal and bolted to a pole.  I'm sure there was another part to the sign that had been taken away or fallen off and "Grace" was simply the name of the school or church or township to my right, but the sign left behind — simply advertising grace as only being a mile down the road — posed an existential opportunity.

"Yes," I thought.  "I would like some of that," and when I reached the light I flipped on my turn signal.

"But Rob," you say.  "You can have grace anytime you want it.  All you have to do..."

No, no, no.  I don't want Jesus-Christ-died-on-the-cross-for-my-sins-and-rose-again-so-we-could-all-eat-chocolate-bunnies grace.  That's fine.  Great.  And you can have it.  I want tangible grace.  I want to feel it.  Taste it.  Smell it.  I want a grace soup line where I patiently queue up with my bowl and when I finally reach the front some guy with a week-old beard dumps a big spoonful of grace in it and I can barely make it to the old wooden bench before gobbling it up.  I want to get back up, calmly walk back to the big pot o' grace and charmingly ask for more.  I'd be incredibly polite:  "Please sir, I want some more?"  Then some guy with mutton chops wearing a funny looking hat would make a big deal about me wanting more — about how no one had ever done it before — and then there would be a song and dance number and, well, it's mostly visual after that.

The sharp honk of the Pontiac Vibe snapped me out of my Walter Mitty daydream.  I checked the rear-view-mirror, flipped off the turn signal, and went straight.  No time for grace Dr. Jones.  No time for musicals about orphans either.  I have to go buy some roses.  Some sweet, red roses.  2 blooms for a penny.  You can't beat that.

R