I give my best friend understanding so she can be tolerant of others.
As I reflect on this line, I struggle to imagine who Grama might have been talking about, and, having said that, I don’t think she was even close to imagining some sort of grand gesture. She wasn’t the type. I picture her instead thinking of one friend — the real one, the one who knew her before sobriety and after, the one who’d seen her sharp edges and stayed anyway. Would that we were all blessed to have a friend like that: a confidante who’d sit at the kitchen table long after the coffee cooled, the kind of friend who got tangled in her own hurts just as deeply.
Understanding, in Grama’s sense, wasn’t about excusing anyone’s behavior. It was a softer thing. A way of saying, “I can feel where your ache lies, even when it comes out sideways.” She knew tolerance didn’t grow from perfection — it grew from recognizing the bruises people carried into the room.
As her granddaughter, I imagine her prayer as a hand extended — not grand, not poetic, just steady — offering that friend a little more room to breathe, a little more gentleness to carry into the world. And maybe, without saying it aloud, she was steady in her belief that she was in receipt of the same.
Journal Prompt — December 17
Think of the “best friend” in your life — past or present — who has loved you through your unpolished moments.
What understanding do you wish you could give her (or him) today?
And what small act of tolerance could grow from that understanding?
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