From What Was to What Will Be

We stand at the lip of midnight 

breath held like a benediction,

the old year folding itself into a pocket of memory.

Goodness and grief have come in equal measure:

gifts wrapped in light, lessons wrapped in ache.

Thank you, I murmur to every bitter hour and sweet hour alike,

for each taught me how to steady my hands, how to pray when the night was long.

Tonight I release the worn-out maps of doubt,

the debts of worry, the small betrayals of fear.

I lay them gently on the altar of last year,

and watch the embers of what was burn bright and teach.

I am grateful for the doors that opened,

for the voices that stayed, for the hands that let go 

all sacred teachers on a strange and tender road.

Even sorrow, sober and stern, disciplined my heart to hope.

Now, a new road unfurls like scripture yet unread,

blank as first snow, humming with possibility.

I step forward with cautious courage, with a laugh tucked into my pocket,

and a prayer on my lips: that mercy will walk beside me, steady as dawn.

May faith be the lamp I carry, not a shield against questions,

but a light that shows the way when choices are fogged.

May compassion be my compass, generosity my currency,

and humility the shoes with which I travel.

We will build nothing perfect, only brave;

we will stumble, then gather up our courage and rise.

Let each failure be fertilizer for the next bloom,

each grace an answered whisper from a sky that remembers our names.

Come, New Year, we welcome you with open hands,

with songs half-formed and promises to keep.

Be gentle with our fragile plans; be fierce with our faith.

Lead us into laughter, into work that matters, into love that endures.

And when the road narrows, and shadows lengthen,

let us recall this night of gratitude and vow again:

to be kinder, truer, more alive 

to trust that every ending is the seam of a new beginning.

Amen and onward, with hope.

In the Shadow of Uncertainty

Sleep eluded me last night

its tender hands withdrew

as if afraid to touch the tremor in my soul.

The ceiling became a vast confessional,

echoing the silent ache of unspoken dread.

Time, indifferent and cruel,

marched across my mind in ticking footsteps,

each beat a reminder

that stability itself is a fragile guest.

My thoughts, rebellious and unrelenting

assembled their parade of fears.

The specter of loss loomed large,

its voice a cold recitation

of all I might become without this anchor of labor.

Anxiety sat beside me,

a phantom companion tracing its icy fingers

along the frail edges of my composure.

My chest rose and fell like a prayer unspoken,

and yet no peace descended.

Then, from beneath the ruin of unrest,

a subtler voice began to rise

not loud, nor insistent,

but steady, like light beneath closed eyes.

It murmured not of deliverance,

but of assurance, ancient, unwavering:

“All shall be well.”

And in that fragile whisper,

faith stirred within the ashes of fear.

The storm remained,

yet its violence softened

before the calm authority of hope.

Though the morrow is veiled in uncertainty,

I will stand still in its shadow,

clinging not to certainty, but to grace

for even in despair’s hollow chambers,

the Divine composes silence into song,

and the trembling heart learns again

that courage, too, can whisper.

A Birthday Whisper

I cannot bring you flowers,

Nor light a candle near,

But in my heart I whisper,

“Happy Birthday, Grandma dear.”

Your love still walks beside me,

Your voice I sometimes hear,

Though heaven holds you closely,

On earth you still feel near.