What Is Grace For One Like Me

I have carried days like boulders in my pockets,
Waded through waters that swallowed my breath,
Tasting failure like salt on my tongue.
Whispering to myself,
At least I am still moving.

I have stood at the doorway of dawn,
Empty-palmed and hollow-hearted,
Unsure if effort is enough.
If simply standing, alone, can be called trying
When the ground beneath me
Never stops trembling.

I once thought grace was something given,
A voice that whispers,
You are forgiven. Or,
You are enough.
A warmth, a knowing, a certainty.

But sometimes, there is no voice.
No hand reaching through the dark.
No whisper soft enough
To quiet the doubt that enshrouds me like fog.

And I have wondered,
If grace for yourself exists, then where does it hide?
Is it something waiting to be found,
Or something I lost along the way?

What if grace is not an offering,
But an unraveling.
A loosening of the knots I have tied around myself?
What if grace is not a verdict,
But the quiet permission
To just simply be?

Not an answer,
But the right not to know.
Not a crown, but a clearing.
Not a victory, but a voice that whispers
Even here, even now, you are allowed to rest.

What if grace is letting hands that shake
Still be called steady?
Letting a weary heart
Still be called strong?
Letting the one who is simply surviving
Still be called alive?

So here I stand,
In the wreckage of all I thought I had to be,
Learning that being lost
Is not the same as being unworthy.

And maybe,
I do not have to understand grace
to receive it.
Or to deserve it.

Maybe the breath in my lungs is proof enough.

And today,
Despite that voice in my head
Yelling at me about how bad I’m doing…
With the quietude of the new sun rising,
I shall try again, to just be me.