Grace Doesn’t Need Fillers
We train our children to avoid ah and um, yet fill our own silence with noise.
Maybe grace doesn’t live in the words we speak, but in the space between them—
where sparks enter, and presence begins.
Wisdom is how you live.
We train our children to avoid ah and um, yet fill our own silence with noise.
Maybe grace doesn’t live in the words we speak, but in the space between them—
where sparks enter, and presence begins.
Time is not abundant — it is fragile, fleeting, and holy. This reflection explores what it means to serve not out of convenience but out of urgency, recognizing that life itself is the gift and how we spend it is the offering back.
Sometimes grace feels easier with strangers than with those we love. Strangers carry no history, but beloveds carry memory, longing, and wounds. Across traditions, this paradox is seen not as failure but as the cost—and the wholeness—of love.
Our spirits were never meant to be split in two. Beyond the walls of masculine and feminine lies a larger wholeness—threads of order and chaos, reason and feeling, seed and soil—waiting to be remembered.
Regret is memory fused with morality.
Resentment is grief with its hands still clenched.
Remorse? That’s how we begin again.
This is not a story of shame—but a quiet return to integrity.
What if love was never meant to be earned? Divorce didn’t end love — it redefined it. This is a story about grace, co-parenting, and learning to love without a ledger.
We’re often taught that respect must be earned—but what if it was never meant to be transactional? In this reflection, I trace the evolution of the word “respect,” share a generational story about a seat, and invite us to remember that true respect isn’t grand—it’s grounded. A spiritual act. A simple one.
Before a child ever discovers their own spark, they live by the spark of ours. Protecting the spark — both theirs and our own — is the sacred duty of parents, mentors, teachers, coaches, and leaders.