liezel graham

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saturday.

a quiet day.
freedom to read my bible.
food in the cupboards.
a friend on the other side of a text message.
evening vigil.
watching a young man with his small daughter at mass—the patience of him with her, a gift to me, a stranger.
the way she lined up all her wee toys.
remembering a small boy who did the same.
seeing my boy, now a teenager, who outgrew so many words given to him by very clever people.
for a small moment, quietly and just behind my eyes, being able to pray blessing over this father and his little girl.
the way he turned to me, a stranger in his church, to give me the words ‘peace be with you’.
long conversations with my people in the car.
home.
a fire.
roasting marshmallows.
my boy asking questions about thunderstorms, nocturnal animals, and fire.
afterwards, warm showers and freshly-washed hair.
as yet unanswered prayers.
the frustration of this, a gift to me.
the leaning in, and leaning in, and leaning in.
learning, over and over, that peace breathes when i remember to plant an olive tree in my mouth.

also, sometimes i am gardener, sometimes i am olive tree.

i am always called to be water.

© Liezel Graham 2025