The Grace of Waiting Things...

I have come to love the patience of rain,

how it knocks gently, then settles in,

not to flood, but to soften the earth

so, roots can remember their way home.

I have come to love the silence of spoons,

how they cradle heat without complaint,

how they stir stories into morning tea

and never ask to be the center.

The patience of socks,

threadbare, loyal,

holding the ache of long walks

and the rhythm of running toward something unseen.

The waiting of windows,

who never interrupt,

 just offer light,

or hold the dark when we need it.

The towel that dries without judgment.

The doormat that welcomes every kind of mud.

The pen that forgives every crossed-out word.

I have come to love the patience of things

that do not rush,

do not boast,

but stay.

Stay like the floor beneath our grief.

Stay like the chair that remembers our shape.

Stay like the stairs that never ask

why we keep climbing.

And maybe this is grace:

not loud, not grand,

but the kind that stays

when we are tired,

when we are late,

when we are not our best.

The kind that says,

“I’m here. Take your time.”