I usually read three or four books at a time. Right now, my active pile includes 1) Tony Robbins’ Money: Mastering the Game, 2) a Fannie Flagg novel, 3) What’s so Amazing About Grace by Phillip Yancey, and 4) Ann Lamott’s latest — Small Victories: Spotting Improbable Moments of Grace. I read what I’m in the mood for in the moment. I lost Fannie Flagg for awhile, in the middle of a good story; she got tucked into a door pocket of our other car. And I was plowing enthusiastically through Money when Life smacked me upside the head on a Tuesday evening three weeks ago. I haven’t opened the book since. But I am devouring the two books on Grace, my soul hungry for solace, for divine sustenance, tender mercy.

Mostly, my life moves along like a transoceanic flight — tedious, squishy-kneed, but exciting — hope and adventure awaiting. But then the turbulence hits, randomly, unexpectedly, spilling soda and knocking me off my wobbly airborne feet as I waddle back from the toilet box. Then it’s just Hang on! Don’t lose hope! And don’t jab anyone in the head!

That terrible Tuesday evening turned into an all-night marathon of racing to the nearest hospital with our dangerously ill daughter, an ambulance ride to another hospital across the state line, and an anxious wait for lab reports and a Plan. The next day, she was transferred to yet another hospital unit, where she stayed for a week. She came home with several diagnoses, a list of prescriptions and an eight-page treatment plan. This latest health crisis was not the first, but it was the most serious episode in the ongoing struggle to get this child to adulthood intact. It’s a terrifyingly emotional journey, where hope feels risky.

Then there’s my mother, who has Alzheimer’s disease. The same week that I spent driving back and forth to the hospital for my daughter, Mom’s condition deteriorated from manageable at home to NOT. I had just visited her on the other side of the continent the week before (even though she didn’t remember) and we had some lovely conversations (even though she didn’t remember) and outings. She was gracious and grateful to my saintly stepfather, who has cared for her full-time for several years. But apparently, that’s over. She became so belligerent and agitated that home care is no longer a safe option — for her OR her husband. So last Thursday, we moved her to a Memory Care facility. And we LEFT her there. It was heartbreaking. It still is. Even though she is clearly adjusting well and seemingly happy, I am in full-blown grief. My mother will die there, and because of this horrendous disease, I feel like I have lost her already.

It’s a lot to handle all at once. Thus my intense need for grace.

I couldn’t pray for a couple of weeks. I found this a bit alarming, as prayer has always been my go-to stress reliever. It’s not that I was mad at God. I just didn’t know what to say, what to ask for. And I’ve learned not to ask God for anything I’m not clear about, because He always answers, and if I’m not clear about the question, the answer will only befuddle me further. I did know — I always know — to thank Him for the challenge. This, to me, is grace. Though my usual conversations with God were temporarily stunted, I did feel His presence. And not so much from the outside, but from the inside of me. This is newish, this fusion of my spirit with the Holy Spirit. It’s a unity with diety that I am not quite accustomed to. This, too, is grace, and it is the most powerful and humbling thing I have ever experienced, to be one with God.

Grace is fearless and full of hope. It somehow sees beyond chronology and into pure presence. What is, is. Grace invokes the power of the great I AM. It bathes us in a peace made of liquid light and divine love. Some might call it power in the priesthood. Some, simply faith. Whatever you call it, once you have been touched by the grace of God, you are reborn into a life so gloriously beautiful and meaningful that even challenge and tragedy are accepted as gifts.

I am still grieving. But that doesn’t mean that grace is not operant in my life, even now, especially now. During this turbulent period, I feel grace as love and warmth and support and understanding, a divine succor and solace that I know comes straight out of Christ’s firsthand experience with sorrow. He knows my pain, my worry, my grief — knows it intimately, personally. Grace is knowing that He knows. And letting Him love me through it.

How do you experience God’s grace?