Echoes of Grace

No one knew her name. Only the crime— Whispered like an incantation Until the crowd grew certain They had always despised her.   She knelt in the square, A hush before the jeering rose, Her heartbeat loud in the hollow Where dignity once lived.   No friend came. No kin stepped near. And when the first stone was lifted, She did not lift her head.   But someone stepped from the ring— A stranger whose silence Cut through their hunger for blame. He paused, as if he too Had been accused.   He said nothing, He did not protest her shame. Only set his hand Upon her bowed back, And lowered himself beside her Until their shadows blurred.   A murmur stirred— The question unspoken: Why would he risk being counted with her?     And in that moment, Her disgrace became shared ground— A quiet joining That no condemnation could unmake.   He did not stand again Until the crowd had found Some other spectacle to feed their hunger.   And when she rose, She rose n...

In the storm of shouted hate, you stood — quiet, unwavering — not for reward, not for show, but because love called you there.   While laws were written to erase me, you learned to say my name like it had always been mine. You listened, even when it hurt.   I stood half-formed in my becoming, unsure, unseen, unclaimed, and still, you looked with steady eyes and said, “I see her.”   Before I knew what beauty meant, you reflected it back to me.   Your voice, a lantern in the dark. Your hand, extended when others pulled away. You asked nothing but dared everything. You chose to risk your peace for ours.   Ally is too small a word. You are kin by courage, family by firelight, a witness to truth in flesh and soul.   I walk freer because you stayed. I speak louder because you believed. I am whole because you saw me that way. For my sisters, Suzanne and Rachel,  who saw me whole before the world did. Your love gave me the courage to live as my whole self. ...

We do not march with banners, no trumpets split the dawn; our anthem is a radio hiss, a grid ref softly drawn. We shoulder maps and questions, breathe cedar, sage, and rain; the mountains keep their secrets— we listen for a name. Hands rough with midnight searching trace hope along a ridge; headlamps paint brief constellations across a shadowed bridge. We learn the language of boot prints, the tremor of a bark; our compass is compassion that glows inside the dark. No laurels crown the finish, no medals seal our worth; the prize is quiet footfalls returning home to earth. So let the boardroom beckon— titles fade like fog at dawn; service is the humble spark that keeps the beacon on. Together we are signal fire, steady in the night: many hearts, one purpose— to guide the lost to light.   *The poem is dedicated to those who take up the call to save those they've never met. 

In the hush between the stacks, where whispered knowledge hums, we’ve watched you shelve bright visions, building kingdoms out of crumbs. You cataloged our questions, inked answers in the air, tucked hope into each margin— left fingerprints of care. Now the bookmark lifts, mid-chapter, and a brand-new story calls: a grander hall of learning with fresh corridors and walls. Go, trace those uncut pages, let possibility unfurl; bind dreams in sturdy covers for another eager world. Yet know that here—between these aisles— our memories still glow: late-night planning, laughter shelved where only colleagues know. We’ll keep those dog-eared moments, their comfort soft and worn, a well-loved, shared anthology we’ll open when we mourn. So turn the page with courage, write boldly, line by line; the lore you leave behind us makes every footnote shine. Our chapter’s last italics read: “Thank you—see you again,” for stories cross like constellations— and ours will meet...

In the quiet hours, as I rest and heal, Two small bodies curl close, their warmth I feel. Not stolen, but gifted, a sacred embrace, A reminder of love in this tender space. Their purring hums a hymn of grace, Echoing rhythms I cannot replace. Healing flows not just through me, But through this bond of shared energy. I think of Christ’s call, his radical plea, “Love even your enemies; let them be free.” Not hoarding our light, not guarding our flame, But sharing it freely, in mercy’s holy name. For warmth is a cycle, a generous give, A way to remind us we all need to live. And here in my rest, their closeness a prayer, God’s love whispered softly through the care that we share. So I hold my kitties, and they hold me too, In this moment of giving, our love is renewed. Though I mend from the body, the spirit is clear— We thrive when we’re open, when we draw near.