Dollop of Grace

November 2, 2026
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In the town of Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, there is a church named Lagniappe (“lan-yap”). It is an old Creole word that means “something extra”.
Pastor Jean Larroux explains, “Down here if you go into a seafood shop and order a pound of shrimp and they put in an extra handful, that’s the lagniappe. It’s something you can’t pay for. Something for nothing. Something for free.”
In an area devastated by Hurricane Katrina, Jean began this church, in his words, with people “primed for grace.” Accustomed to teaching church people how to celebrate, Jean was surprised to find himself in a community of people who already knew. Even in the middle of their hardship.
Here’s the good part.
This celebration (fullness and wholeness of life from lagniappe) is not predicated on life as we expect it.
The party doesn’t start when our fear is gone.
The party doesn’t start when our beliefs are unadulterated.
The party doesn’t start when doubt has been appeased.
The party doesn’t start when our circumstances make it feasible.
And this I know; if we wait for all that, we miss the gift of grace—the sacrament of the present moment—every time.
The Celtic church gives us a word for such grace moments (doorways). They called them thin places. “A thin place is anywhere our hearts are opened,” writes Marcus Borg. “They are places where the boundary between the two levels becomes very soft, porous, permeable. Thin places are places where the veil momentarily lifts, and we behold (the ‘ahaah of The Divine’) all around us and in us.”
Bottom line? We are grounded.

At our event this past weekend in New Mexico, our discussions centered around the topic of emotional and spiritual hydration. And how, emotional dehydration takes a toll on us all. And how sadly, we may not even be aware it is happening. Let’s call it emotional exhaustion, or cynicism, or feeling ineffective. And spiritual dehydration is the absence of life’s fullness or wholeness.
So. In our world of dehydration—where we are inundated with the need to outdo or outrun—it is no surprise that we wonder if grace is too good to be true. And because of that, we forget to give ourselves the permission to be the recipient of grace’s gift. Because here’s the deal: grace is WD40 for the soul.

And no, we do not always (or easily) see the thin places.
This is precisely why I love stories—like Lagniappe. They are reminders, when our scotoma (selective blindness) is lifted. Ah yes, the veil is lifted. And there, with our sacramental imagination flourishing, we see, hear, taste and touch those gifts, in our “unexpected encounters” with the Sacred. With the Holy. With God.
Let us embrace this reminder: on the daily pilgrimage each one of us walks, we are fueled by our inherent value. Enabling us to embrace those places of beauty, creativity, resilience, imagination, courage and humor. And kindness.
Those places of healing.
And places of inspiration.

My mind frequently returns to my Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. The Camino wisdom called me daily, to pick up my pack, and march on. To trust, find beauty, and to be vulnerable. To share pain, joy, and connection. To practice (okay, lots of patience) faith, embrace grace, continue walking.
Because here’s the deal: Sometimes we do indeed need a different way to measure what really matters.
You see, on this walk—this pilgrimage—we walk toward, or we walk away.
Toward what enriches. Or toward what diminishes.
Either way, we begin a journey—a pilgrimage—to find, or restore, or forgive, or heal. To lift the veils. Or perhaps, just to have the deck of our world shuffled.
Thich Nhat Hanh’s reminder, “At any moment, you have a choice, that either leads you closer to your spirit or further away from it.”
And every single one of us—let me repeat, every single one of us—is on this pilgrimage.

And no, the pilgrimage of life is not easy by any measure. Which is why I marvel at stories about people with fortitude or stamina. My friend Jinks tells me that it is our place of “bright shadow.”
“There’s something deep inside, that helps us become what we can.” Yes. We are fueled by our inherent value. Remembering Lagniappe. Remembering our endowment, by our Creator, with good.
Can we hear that today?
I hope so.
And pilgrimage is a great metaphor for what we are on, as a country. We are walking not only to disconnect from our barraged pace of life (amplified by social media), but to make space for presence, and healing, and connectedness, and recovery, on so many levels—with others, with our world, and with ourselves.
Sadly, when life feels catawampus, we forget where we tether our well-being.
So, I will carry these words with me into this week and I invite you to do the same.
What sustains me, and carries me gently through my days?
What heals and restores and inspires?
What empowers me to spill the light I carry?

Lagniappe necessitates a paradigm shift. Without it, we stay stuck in our head. We like to say that we teach or preach grace. Which makes grace something to comprehend, like the answer to a test question.
And we miss the party, the fundamental reality that grace lights up our day, and our world. Regardless of whether we fathom it.
We miss the wakefulness that grace bestows, fueled by two simple words; Thank you.
We miss the power of lagniappe. The something extra? The joy in the ordinary, in dollops of gentleness, kindness, connection, empathy, compassion, generosity, wonder and healing.
Ordinariness opens us up to our humanity (and to our connection to one another), now absorbed in moments of grace. Instead of needing to fix or analyze, we absorb and invest; we notice, and listen, and feel, and love.
We are safe, at home in our skin. An antidote to (in the words of Seneca) “that tossing to and fro of the mind, that can nowhere find rest.”
We are primed for grace. And lagniappe, grace, always spills.
Lagniappe is the bounty from compassion, not predicated on life as we expect it.
It is the replenishment from grace, that doesn’t start when our fear is gone.
Or when our beliefs are unadulterated.
Or when our circumstances make it feasible.
Most likely, if we wait for all that, we miss rebirth, comfort, healing, being fed to fullness… and the miracle, every time.
So, I have an idea… This week, be on the lookout for a hand that needs to be held.
And here’s the deal: Without even knowing it, we are lagniappe. We are the hands and feet of grace.
“Be the hand of a hopeful stranger, Little scared but you’re strong enough. Be the light in the dark of this danger, ‘Till the sun comes up.’” Sara Barielles, A Safe Place to Land

To all college football fans, it’s been quite the roller coaster. My Oh My.
And I hope it was a celebratory Halloween to you all—which is our created mixture from All Saints and All Souls Day. And for our Mexican and Latin American friends, Día de los Muertos. Bottom line: Days to celebrate and welcome family spirits back to the realm of the living.
I confess that I didn’t really have a Halloween costume, unless you count middle-aged tourist. Just sayin’.
And my friends, please Vote. I read a statement made in the Irish Times by a Connemara man, after he was arrested for a car accident. “There were plenty of onlookers, but no witnesses.”
More than ever, we need sanity and restoration. Be gentle with yourself this week, and let your light spill.
Quote for your week… “The heart is always the place to go. Go home into your heart, where there is warmth, appreciation, gratitude and contentment.” Ayya Khema

BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: “Hi Terry, Fall has been beautiful here in New Jersey. These photos are from a walk Steve and I did, in the northwest, in a public park. Hope you and Nancy are over your jet lag. I am going on a British book tour next year, something I have always wanted to do and ‘universe willing’ 2027 is the year! Take Good Care, your blog is one thing that sustains me for sure.” Beth Hayward…

POEMS AND PRAYERS

For those
who walked with us,
this is a prayer.
For those
who have gone ahead,
this is a blessing.
For those
who touched and tended us,
who lingered with us
while they lived,
this is a thanksgiving.
For those
who journey still with us
in the shadows of awareness,
in the crevices of memory,
in the landscape of our dreams,
this is a benediction.
Jan Richardson, “For Those Who Walked With Us”
(Jan is an artist, writer, and ordained minister
in the United Methodist Church)