Moments before digging into our Christmas Eve feast this year, my mom suggested that I lead the table in saying grace.
As the recognized wordsmith of the family, I typically agree to perform this task with no qualms — spouting off whatever cliché, prayer-ish things I can think of, while maybe injecting a modicum of nonsensical humor into the mix (i.e. “…and bless my non-existent husband, and please remove all the calories from the meal we’re about to eat so that he may one day become a real boy, like Pinocchio? Like Pinocchio. Except a grown man, and without the nose situation. Amen.“).
But this year, I decided to push buttons and be all like, “Well, I called the Pope an asshole on Facebook the other day. So maybe I’m not the best person to be leading our Catholic family in prayer right now?”
And then we had a brief discussion about homophobia and religion and Italy and love and being human — and we all agreed that the Pope kind of is an asshole for calling me less than human in his annual Christmas speech.
And then we laughed. A lot.
And then I realized how grateful I am for my family.
And then I said grace.
