The weekend is full… travel, a workshop, visiting, connecting and reconnecting, and I’m weary to the bone by the time I walk into the embrace of my family and my home.

It’s a weary wonderful, though. To be a woman sharing stories with other women, and to be a woman coming home to dear faces. The son whose been away for a few weeks, the other children and the stories of pig butchering, and the husband.

I sleep the sweet sleep of coming home, and in the morning I wake children up to breakfast and coffee and around the table are the ones I love, and I am complete again. Blessed to be in my circle of love.

I go searching for my grace cup. For the coffee that my husband made this morning, and it’s nowhere to be found. Not on the counter nor in the dishwasher. I find it, finally, in the living room, tucked behind some books on a little table and I pick it up, cracked.

My cup of grace, my favourite morning coffee and reflect upon the day to come vessel, is chipped and a noooo escapes my heart. I loved that silly cup. It was a gift from the women who attended the first story workshop I taught, a year ago or so.

Careless boys, I think. It probably didn’t bother them a bit that they broke it. I can’t keep anything nice in the house full of boys. 

And my wonderful, my peace, curdles just for a second. Until I look at the word on the cup, and the way the crack runs down between the letters, and I hear the message.

And grace is restored.

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