Grace is a word I always associate with the prayer my family always said before dinner growing up. It’s a symbol of the faith my parents wanted us kids to grow up with, but something I never fully grasped. For a while, I hated grace. I hated having to thank some unknown being for the food that my parents worked hard to earn and prepare. There was no one’s hand in our meal but my parents’.
Now, as a mother, I understand. Not the faith part of it, but the thankful part. I have yet to put into words a way I can say thank you for my blessings, both about our food and our general wellness as a family, but internally I make note of where our food came from, the work my husband put into earning it, and the time I spent putting into making it a meal.
It’s not about religion; not anymore. It’s about understanding that we are so blessed. So, so blessed to not worry about where our next meal will come from, or where it came from. Not having to worry about my kids getting the right nutrition. Not having to worry that this may be the last full meal they receive for a while.
I am thankful.