Mary had grown up knowing that she was different from the other kids, and she hated it. Born with a cleft palate, Mary would hear the jokes and tolerate the stares of other children (some cruel, others, simply curious) who teased her about her misshaped lip, her crooked nose and garbled speech. Mary grew up hating the fact that she was "different," convinced that no one, outside her family, could ever love her.

Until she entered Mrs. Leonard's class. Mrs. Leonard had a warm smile, a round face, and shiny brown hair.

In the 1950's, teachers would administer an annual hearing test. In addition to her cleft palate, Mary was able to hear out of only one ear. Determined not to give classmates another difference to tease, each year she would cheat on the hearing test.

It was called the "whisper test." The teacher would stand 1-2 feet behind the student so they could not read her lips. The student would place one finger on the opposite ear to obscure any sound. The teacher would whisper words with 2 distinct syllables toward the student's ear. The student would repeat the phrase to the teacher. When Mary turned her bad ear toward her teacher, she always pretended to cover her good ear. Mary knew that teachers would typically say, "The sky is blue," or "What color are your shoes?" But not on that day. Mrs. Leonard changed Mary's life forever. When the "whisper test" came, Mary heard these words: "Mary, I wish you were my little girl."  

Or, stops you. Literally. Right where you are. On an ordinary day, say with a cup of coffee in your hand looking out the window at an unblemished white landscape, and a narrow shaft of sunlight illuminating the ground near a snow-covered log where a congregation of Bearded Iris shoots (leaves) defy winter, the tips of their green blades puncturing the snow pack. Dag Hammarskjold got it right, "God does not die on the day we cease to believe in a personal deity. But we die on the day when our lives cease to be illumined by the steady radiance of wonder renewed daily, the source of which is beyond all reason."

So. Where do you hear the voice of grace?

We could use more Mrs. Leonards in our world.  

Although it does sound too good to be true.

But here's the deal: We make a mistake if we assume that we can orchestrate grace. And an even greater mistake if we assume we have to get dressed up for it. Like prom night. Or study for it, like preparing for some multiple choice test that has right and wrong answers.

Her response, "That's hard to do. I want to." She is clearly embarrassed, "I want to, but I have no make-up. No costume."

That hits me where I live. Honestly? My costume is whatever "image" I need to "wear" in order to be judged, measured, evaluated, approved or accepted. Appropriate would be a better word.

To say that make-up is a fixation in our culture would be, well, enough to make you cachinnate (or chortle, whichever your druthers). But get this. There are 1700 anti-wrinkle creams on the market. It's true. And did you know that we spend 12 billion dollars per year just on creams to help us look younger? Not that some people couldn't use a little cream, just to help out. Truth is, there are those who could benefit from a tube of that extra-strength ointment. (Lord knows I could mention some names here and now.)

But it's not about the make-up, is it? It's about this cultural full-court press that we remake ourselves into someone who will be acceptable. Lovable. Even, one would hope, successful. Because, apparently, whoever we are now... well, that just isn't enough.

So I give in to the latest can't miss cream or treadmill or book or seminar that promises to make me spiritually or psychologically state of the art.

When I was a kid, my church taught me that Grace had a whole lot to do with giving up drinking and smoking and swearing and playing cards and dancing and women. Giving up dancing was easy since I wasn't any good at it. And smoking burned my throat. And drinking a whole bottle of peppermint schnapps once on a dare, made me throw up. And women, well, they just confused me. (And yes, they still do. And any man who tells you otherwise is yanking your chain.) Long story short, by college, I didn't drink or smoke or swear or play cards or dance or even think about women (okay, I'm lying about that part. I did a lot of thinking--and thought if I was lucky I'd find one woman versatile in all those trespasses--I was just scared to death to do anything about it). So I wore the costume. I learned the lingo. But it had absolutely nothing to do with Grace. The game plan was simple: getting to heaven. Jesus was like some Travel-Agent-for-Eternity. And my costume? It was window dressing. My uniform for the divine-hall-monitor, my free pass. Anything to keep God from being less than thrilled.

I needed to hear the voice of Grace.

Last night I watched Les Choristes (The Chorus). It is WWII. The boys are orphans (fated to Fond de l'Etang), and forgotten by society. It is a school for lost causes and the boys live up to their label. It is not surprising given an egotistical headmaster who believes that troubled boys need severity in discipline.   

Mathieu: You see evil everywhere.

Chabert: Here? Yes.

(Believing the label given us is easy, and something every one of us is prone to do. For we see what we want to see, in others and in ourselves.)

The boys and their new prefect had no future. Until he found a way to reach them.

Underneath the label, locked inside is a treasure. For Mathieu, it is his love of music. And it became the key to unlock the boys' hearts. It became their "whisper test." They form a chorus (les choristes). "I had sworn never to touch my music again. Never say never," Mathieu discovers. "Nothing is ever truly lost."

In the music, each one of them hears the voice of Grace.

This past week, I spent a day in Spokane with some of my favorite people (The Inland Empire Garden Club). An active and vibrant group, eager to begin planting--which could only be a wish, given that the temperature outside was below zero wind-chill. So inside the meeting hall we talked about why gardens are a sanctuary of grace and gooseflesh, and made the suggestion that it wouldn't hurt us to spend 20 minutes in our gardens each morning looking for miracles.

Today, on Vashon, I wake to snow--4 inches or so--enough to make you stay put, light a fire and crank up the Soweto Gospel Choir. After dawn light, I walk to the main road, stopping now and again to revel in the stillness and sanctuary offered by this blanket of snow, pristine and unencumbered. There is no sound, save for my breathing and the occasional scrunch from my boots in the snow.