Saying Grace

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 blessings and encouragement, but my family didn’t ask for it. Instead, my parents raised glasses of wine to the chef: Cheers. Bottoms up. 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 six 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 fish-eye.”

Because I grew up around alcohol and unhappy grown ups, I was very watchful, like a tiny air traffic controller. 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 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. I also noticed that praying families were in no better shape than mine.

Later I noticed how often people are 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 36 years, 35 of them sober. 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 a sort of freelance Irish 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.