Echoes of Grace

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...