Little Things, Big Light

I do the small holy things.
I taste my bread like it’s the whole world, slow and grateful.

I tuck a memory in a tin, a seed in a packet, a story for a grandbaby — tiny treasures that make a thousand tomorrows kinder.

I watch the moon, mend the broken, hum at the window, and the ordinary becomes altar.

I plant herbs and talk to them like kin; they answer back with scent and stubborn medicine.

I sit bedside, hold a hand, tell a story — and that gentle work is louder than any trumpet.

When sorrow comes, it’s for those who can’t see light yet, not for me.

I am not afraid. My flesh may whisper warnings, but my heart keeps its steady feast.

I will not trade my minutes for other folks’ fear. I will eat my days like sweet cornbread — slow, grateful, whole.

Blessings on those who want their stone boxes; I wish them softening.

As for me, I sit in my rainbow prism — clear, laughing, humming — where strife bounces off like a June bug on the screen door.

This is my altar: boundaries set gentle and true, joy kept in the middle, mercy poured like honey.

I am careful. I am generous. I am a diamond — bright, patient, unashamed.

May the little things I do keep lighting the path for those who come after me.

May my puzzle pieces fall in places that teach, mend, and make room.

May my days be full of wonder and my nights full of songs.

Amen, and hallelu!