Grace.

I've been thinking about it lately -- or rather, I have had these moments of the recognition of grace recently. For me, it is a moment of perfection. Undeserved, unplanned and utterly magical in some way.

We recently spent a week off the coast of Mexico on a tiny island close to Cancun, La Isla Holbox. What an experience and adventure it was. We flew to Cancun via Mexico City, traveling through Guadalajara. Eek -- an oversight on my part as Mexicana Airlines reminded me very much of the brightly painted metal wall hanging I have in my kitchen of an African airplane festooned with crates of livestock and assorted oddities perched on the roof. The smiling multi-colored people on my wall sculpture differ however from the disgruntled passengers on the Mexicana planes who missed connections, sprinted between terminals and tried to negotiate seats with disinterested airline staff. But Grace smiled upon us, and granted us stand-by seats on a connecting flight when we sat in a dejected heap in front of the boarding gate of a plane heading to Cancun, along with a collection of other miserable passengers. We got to Cancun, cheered that our transport to the ferry would still be there to meet us. Our luggage, however, never made it that far. We passed through customs, and I offered a full luggage search when and if it ever arrived. The customs guy stopped me. Looking at me seriously, he asked me how many bags we had checked. I replied and he sternly instructed me to push a large blue button. I looked in surprise as a green light blinked above me. "True" it said. I noticed a "False" just below it, comfortingly dark. Some sort of primitive lie detector test? He gave me a satisfied nod, and said, enjoy your stay. Grace, I thought.

We piled into a van and headed into the unknown with a friendly driver who didn't speak a word of English and smiled broadly at my attempts at Spanish. The road seemed as straight as an arrow, running through the lush vegetation, with no street signs and a huge tropical sun setting on the horizon. We weaved across the empty road as our driver texted enthusiastically with his free hand, driving like a bat out of hell with the other, no doubt late for an important date as we had arrived three hours late. Fortunately, there were no other cars on the road for miles. And then, suddenly he would screech to a practical halt and gingerly lumber over an enormous speed bump placed strategically at the beginning of tiny villages and clusters of falling-down buildings. I noticed how dogs, scooters, bicycles, carts and people would scatter to the safety of ditches and verges, horns would be honked, much merry waving would be exchanged and after a farewell speed bump, we would be tearing off into the paved distance once more.
At some point, the driver told me in broken English that we would be taking a"short cut." He stopped in front of a large bush, and promptly turned the van into a ditch. We bumped through some brush, drove over a few lumps of earth and edged our way along in a thicket of beautiful local flora. Suddenly we came face-to-face with an official looking taxi bumping along the same track. Great, traffic issues in the short-cut. There was waving and maneuvering and we were through the bushes and ready to dash out of the thicket and join the road. The driver turned off the a/c and music, and listened intently for traffic. All clear, and we accelerated onto the tarred road. We were on our way once again. Is it still far to go? I asked anxiously, noting we had been driving for almost two hours. Oh, yes! he said cheerfully, and cranked up the music. No traffic, a beautiful Mexican sunset, and an unknown destination. Grace, I thought.
We arrived at Chiquila in the dark, and with a firm handshake and a smile, the driver dropped us at the ferry landing, waving a hand at a homely looking woman who was to get us to the island. She smiled encouragingly, and whipped out her cellphone. A call was made, and in my limited Spanish it sounded as if she was trying to arrange a boat trip to the island for us, as the little Ferry would be leaving later, and she wanted to save us all the wait. We sat on the quay next to a tiny, rusty boat. Some men arrived, hopped into the boat and graciously helped us into the boat, after gesticulating that they were our ride to the island. Henk looked alarmed, and the kids thrilled. We roared off into the dark, four men, a little girl in a puffy jacket who belonged to someone there, and a crooner. Honestly, we just left the quay and a young man picks up his guitar and strums out a song that got more emotional the further we got from the shore. Henk pointed out the sole life preserver hanging from the boat, smiled and shrugged. Here we are in the dark on a tiny boat in a foreign country with our two children, no belongings and it is warm, exciting and pretty exhilarating.
Grace, I thought.

A week of island life with talcum powder beach sand, turquoise water, sunshine, tropical showers, a brightly lit sky ablaze with stars, friendly fishermen, and food that makes you glad to be alive. We got our bags two days later, and had survived with only a bar of soap and toothbrushes bought at the island grocery store, such as it was.

Grace, all round.

And then we got home, and I thought, well, grace is easy in exotic places and times. And then suddenly it was my birthday and I was with a group of lovely friends and one of them sings Happy Birthday like a nightingale. Instantly, I am five years old and thrilled at the experience of seeing Snow White on the big screen as she sings with the birds in the opening scene of the original Disney movie. The delight and wonder of that sound rushes back to me, and I am no longer turning 40 and jaded, but five and utterly delighted at the world.

Grace, in ordinary life.