Grace is a New Day

Grace is each new day. Some days she's dressed like a child on Merry-Go-Round, laughing, kicking, swinging and swaying. One time I felt her next to me when oncoming traffic slide on ice and by her grace missed our car. I gave thanks to her flutter touch on my shoulder, and placed my hand on top of hers. 

I saw him once, standing on distant hill. The clouds came in that evening from the hilltop in shades of blue and gold. He stood gloriously looking down at us like a shepherd whose sheep were safe for the night.

I do not have to see Grace to believe in her or feel him in my heart. It is a knowing deep down inside that lifts me up in ways I can't describe. A chirping Bewick wren returning for the winter months peeks at the feeders in our yard. When the bird finds food I watch her tiny tail flip into the air and then jerk back in forth in eager movements. Is he pleased, hungry, curious or communicating with others?  I lose track of time and worries when I watch our birds outside. This is Grace.

I've been beaten down lately, by man-made rifles of death in the hands of angry people.  I hurt so deeply for people who are victims of Hate that my insides quiver from my heart to my toes.  

Hate comes dressed in dirt and filth with a sad grim expression. He eats selfishly off the plates of those who are starving. She slays another and another without stopping for fear of death meeting her first. 

If only, I think, others could see the beauty out my window each day, thanks to Grace.