On Thanksgiving Morning, my cousin confronted our grandmother in the kitchen and told her she was going to hell.

Happy Thanksgiving, I thought—while he stood there, smug and holier-than-thou. I definitely thought some other things about my cousin and his super-religious family—and they were not exactly thoughts of gratitude that these relatives were going to be joining us for the day’s festivities.

Only one person seemed unperturbed by the confrontation: the person who was, apparently, going to hell. Our grandmother, who’d raised seven children and grandmothered 22, looked at my cousin with pure love. And though I don’t remember how she responded—or if she responded at all—I do remember one thought that penetrated my fog of anger: This was a woman who knew all about grace.