The Gift of Grace

The Gift of Grace

In a new home,

a new house,

I watched my mother plant

 Iris tubers brown and wrinkled,

small sticks emerging from the earth

to be roses,

not bits of dust  but tiny seeds.

She trusted.

She saw the coming beauty,

the grace of knowing Soul

as active

as creative

as a surety.

The garden blooms in glory,

all foreseen

In the springtime garden

my father turned the soil,

made rows straight for

tall stalks of corn,

low rows of beans,

tomatoes in between.

He trusted.

He saw the coming harvest,

the grace of knowing Soul

as productive

as supply

as certainty.

The garden feeds us well,

all foreseen

The gift of grace

is knowing what beauty looks like

before it appears.

The gift of grace

 is knowing how to do the work,

to express Soul’s plan.

The gift of grace

is seeing completed good

in now’s process.

The gift of grace is

knowing Soul.