Grace, in the hands of my son.

he finds me in the kitchen, pulls me

from the arms of yet another frayed plan

that i have stitched together

the whole morning

my name

has been


my surname


my hands

unworrying the things behind my eyes

and failing

‘I am waiting for you, mom.’

he whispers

leads me to his room

dinosaurs and bears on his bed, he takes one small speaker

of his music player

brushes my hair from my cheek, fills my left ear with music

curled up next to my legs, eyes closed

his face is a soft map, his right ear filled

with the same song

he shares with me the thing that gives him joy

he is love

quiet grace

a promise


— grace, in the hands of my son

© Liezel Graham 2021.

Image by Annie Spratt, on Unsplash.

Some days find me threading, and unthreading my past, my future, the knowing that grace means different things to different people, that sometimes I have to put my head down and just keep walking until I find the light, or until the light finds me.

And then there is this quiet gift that is my son, who is this soft hope, this quiet place in my life.

Sending love to anyone who is determined to stand up under their past, or their future.

You are loved, just as you are.

May someone come and sit next to you and share with you the thing that gives them joy.

And may you be found by the light.


Image by Annie Spratt, Unsplash.

2 thoughts on “Grace, in the hands of my son.

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