May God Grant You Always

May God Grant You Always My wish is to give peace, comfort, and hope to those on earth grieving the loss of a loved one.

The rope at the back of that boatis trailing in the water, attached to nothing.He brought it anyway. He always brings it...
06/15/2026

The rope at the back of that boat

is trailing in the water, attached to nothing.

He brought it anyway. He always brings it.

Some habits survive the thing that made them necessary.
He rows out here and then stops rowing.

The oars go still the way hands go still

after a long prayer ends —

not because the prayer worked but because the arms are done.
The water holds the boat the way silence holds grief —

without effort, without commentary,

the amber light of this particular hour

settling on him like something that does not ask to be thanked.
He is not out here to find peace.

He came out here because the land

had too many rooms in it, too many doorways

that still hold the shape of someone walking through.
The mist at the edges does not lift.

He does not pray for it to lift.

He sits in the middle of the water

and lets the rope drift where it drifts.
The boat rocks slightly.

He does not correct it.

Somewhere behind him, the shore.

He does not turn.
— May God Grant You Always

Her hair is moving in a windshe did not ask for and cannot stop.The bird above her is already too farto see where it is ...
06/15/2026

Her hair is moving in a wind

she did not ask for and cannot stop.

The bird above her is already too far

to see where it is going.
She is wearing white the way someone wears

what they put on before they knew the day would ask this of them.

The sun is going down or coming up —

she cannot tell. Neither can I.
The waves arrive at her feet without permission.

She has learned to let them.

She has learned to stand at the edge of something enormous

and not step back and not step in.
That is the prayer she knows now.

Not words. Not kneeling.

Just the standing at the border of what she cannot cross,

her face toward a light that does not answer.
The bird is a grey speck in the upper right corner of everything.

She does not call it back.

She has prayed for the grace to watch things go

without making a sound, and some mornings she manages.
The wind moves through her hair again.

The waves keep their schedule.

She is still there.

She is still there.
— May God Grant You Always

That hand is reaching toward the roseand not quite touching it.That is the whole of what grief is —the reaching that sto...
06/15/2026

That hand is reaching toward the rose

and not quite touching it.

That is the whole of what grief is —

the reaching that stops just short.
The moon above it is full and indifferent.

It does not lean toward the hand or the flower.

I have prayed under a moon like that —

said everything and felt the sky stay the same size.
The rose is rooted. The hand is not.

The hand floats in the blue dark without anchor,

fingers open the way a question is open,

palm turned as if waiting for something to be placed there.
I know that hand.

I have been that hand.

Reaching toward what still grows in the place I cannot reach —

the red thing that remains after everything else has gone dark.
The moon does not move to help.

I have stopped asking the moon to move.

I fold my own hands now differently —

not open like that reaching, but closed around the asking.
There is a rose in the dark.

There is a hand that cannot close the distance.

The moon keeps its counsel.

The hand stays open.
— May God Grant You Always

He is so small on those stairs,and the cardinal beside him does not fly away.The door at the top is made entirely of lig...
06/15/2026

He is so small on those stairs,

and the cardinal beside him does not fly away.

The door at the top is made entirely of light

that does not ask him to come closer.
I have prayed toward a door like that.

I have prayed the way a small child stands —

barefoot, not knowing the word for what he needs,

just facing the direction that feels right.
The bird stays at his side the way grief stays —

not asking to be noticed, not leaving either,

simply present on the same stone step,

the same warm gold of all that surrounding silence.
I cannot pray for what is behind that door.

I can only pray for the standing —

for the barefoot child in all of us

who has not yet moved and cannot yet turn back.
The stairs go up through clouds I cannot name.

The light at the top does not dim while I watch.

I keep watching it the way you keep a candle going

not because you need the light but because you need the keeping.
I say the name.

The stairs do not answer.

The cardinal does not move.

The door stays open.
— May God Grant You Always

One daisy grows where the field has gone to grey,its white petals open against the morning mist.The horizon glows behind...
06/15/2026

One daisy grows where the field has gone to grey,

its white petals open against the morning mist.

The horizon glows behind it — barely, gently —

just enough light to show the way through.
That's what getting through each day looks like.

Not a triumph. Not a breakthrough. Just one daisy.

Just one moment of white and yellow in the grey,

just enough to keep your feet moving forward.
I didn't know, at first, that this was how it worked.

I thought grief was a mountain you eventually crested.

Instead it's a field you learn to walk through slowly,

finding small bright things to notice as you go.
I carry you the way this daisy carries morning —

not loudly, not with fanfare, just upright and open.

You are tucked into the part of me that keeps functioning,

that makes coffee and answers emails and still shows up.
The mist doesn't lift. It just becomes familiar.

The ache doesn't end. It just becomes your home.

And somewhere inside the hardest hours of ordinary,

I find you waiting — warm, familiar, close.
May God grant you the peace I can't fully picture.

May God grant me the grace to keep you near.

Not over it — never over it. But through it, carrying you,

one quiet day at a time, tucked safe inside my heart. 🌼
—

He sits alone where the fog has swallowed the horizon,and beside him, a single wilted flower leans in.No color. No crowd...
06/15/2026

He sits alone where the fog has swallowed the horizon,

and beside him, a single wilted flower leans in.

No color. No crowd. Just the mist

and the particular silence of someone unreachable.
Not the silence of absence. The silence of want.

The kind that builds when you have so much to say

and the person you need to say it to

has moved somewhere your voice cannot follow.
I've rehearsed the conversation a hundred times.

I've heard your side of it in my own imagination.

But imagination only goes so far before it aches —

before the gap between pretend and gone becomes too wide.
I want to ask you things I never thought to ask.

I want to tell you things I thought we had more time for.

I want to sit with you in a room where nothing matters

except the two of us and the unhurried hours.
The fog makes everything feel possible and impossible at once.

Like maybe just beyond the grey you're still there somewhere.

Like maybe if the mist lifts, the bench will have two people —

and the wilted flower will straighten and bloom again.
May God grant you peace in whatever comes after.

May God grant me the grace to keep living forward.

And may something — somewhere — carry the words I couldn't say

into whatever space exists between here and you. 🕊️
—

Two stones shaped like hearts, left touching —one the color of absence, one the color of bone.The water keeps arriving b...
06/15/2026

Two stones shaped like hearts, left touching —

one the color of absence, one the color of bone.

The water keeps arriving behind them and retreating.

Neither stone moves. Neither stone explains.
I have held my grief the way the sand holds these —

not tightly, not loosely, just under them,

bearing the weight without being asked,

shifting only when the water decides.
I press my palms together now and feel

the particular texture of my own skin

against itself — how strange it is to pray

with hands that no longer know what they are reaching toward.
The grey stone and the white stone do not touch by accident.

Something placed them there, or something kept them —

I cannot know which, and the not-knowing

is the whole of what my faith has become.
The wave behind them does not distinguish.

It comes for grief and it comes for trust equally.

I have learned to let it come

without stepping back, without calling it a sign.
These two stones will still be here at morning.

The tide will have tried and not moved them.

I have one prayer left and it is only:

let me be that.
— May God Grant You Always

That yellow flower pushed up through cracked earthand no one told it the ground was not ready.The sky above it is the co...
06/14/2026

That yellow flower pushed up through cracked earth

and no one told it the ground was not ready.

The sky above it is the color of a held storm —

not breaking, not passing, just staying.
I have prayed into that kind of sky.

I have pressed my knees into ground this hard

and said the words anyway, even when the words

came out tasting like dust, like dried clay, like nothing.
Prayer is what I do the way that flower does —

not arriving somewhere, not completing something,

not crossing a finish line that grief

has promised me exists somewhere ahead.
The cracks in the ground do not heal between prayers.

They are still there when I open my eyes.

I have stopped pretending the kneeling closes them.

I kneel because I am still here, not because it works.
That flower does not face the storm.

It only faces upward, which is all facing is —

a direction chosen without guarantee

of anything coming down to meet it.
I keep my face the same way.

I keep my hands the same way.

Not finished.

Not done.
— May God Grant You Always

That small red flower is still standingat the base of a fence no one is tending.The snow has covered every post, every r...
06/14/2026

That small red flower is still standing

at the base of a fence no one is tending.

The snow has covered every post, every rail,

and still that stem holds itself up into the falling.
I have been praying the way that flower stands —

not because the ground beneath me is warm,

but because I do not know what else

my body knows how to do in the cold.
The cardinal on the fence post does not move.

He is the only color left in this field.

I keep watching him the way I keep praying —

expecting nothing, unable to stop.
That is where I live now, in that in-between.

Not in certainty. Not in silence.

In the place where I fold my hands

because my hands remember something I have forgotten.
The snow keeps falling without announcement.

The fence holds its weight without being asked.

The flower does not explain itself.

The bird does not explain himself either.
I have stopped asking for explanation.

I have kept asking for something else —

I do not have the word for it.

I keep asking anyway.
— May God Grant You Always

That cardinal has been sitting theresince before I finished my first prayer this morning.He does not move. The bare tree...
06/14/2026

That cardinal has been sitting there

since before I finished my first prayer this morning.

He does not move. The bare tree holds him.

The snow below has not been touched by anyone.
I have been talking to the cold.

I have been saying what I cannot say

to anyone with a face that would respond,

anyone who would reach across and hold me.
The water beyond the snow is still and grey.

My hands, when I fold them, are cold too —

I notice that now, the particular cold

of a person praying without expectation of warmth.
I am not asking him to be a sign.

I am only asking to keep praying

past the place where prayer

makes sense to me.
The cardinal shifts. One foot, then the other.

He does not fly. He does not leave.

I think that is what faith looks like

when no comfort has arrived.
I have said everything I know how to say.

The snow keeps its silence without effort.

The red bird stays.

I do not know why that matters to me.
— May God Grant You Always

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