Whispers of Grace

There’s a peace that whispers soft when I step beneath the open sky, trees stretching in green prayer, branches swaying like the hands of a thousand saints, lifting their weight toward something higher. In moments when I’m alone, that wide sky pulls me in close— a blue blanket tucked around shoulders on a night lit only by stars. Crickets keep time, their gentle song finding rhythm with my heart. I think of the quiet crack of a baseball bat, the ball arcing high, a promise carried on the wind, a flight so clear it feels like love. In a way, it's the same—a swing of hope, the reach for connection, the leap toward something more. And isn’t that like a prayer, too? Those small moments when I feel Him, like sunlight slipping through autumn leaves, or in the crisp warmth of pajamas fresh from the line, or the sacred stillness of a Sunday afternoon. Nature wraps around me like comfort, reminding me I am never truly alone, even when no one’s near— because in each bird’s song, each gust of wind, each blade of grass bending beneath my feet, there is something holy, something here.