WHEN GRACE DOESN’T COME
Sometimes grace comes walking up the snowy path.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
When my dad was dying, and my family was unraveling, I prayed for grace.
I waited for it the way a man in winter waits for dawn.
But it never came.
Not the way I wanted.
No one walked up the path.
No pilot light relit itself.
The house stayed cold.
And yet somehow, I’m still here.
Maybe that’s grace too — the kind that hides in endurance, in the ache that keeps you reaching toward the light even when it doesn’t come.
Maybe the grace that saves you once
is the same grace that leaves you to grow next.
Maybe both are love.