I asked to know real Grace.
It is my namesake
and I have a feeling I need it.
I break things.
So I ask,
God, what can this mean?
Is it a name,
or a thing that lives and breathes?
Does it pardon me, or teach me that I’ve been wrong?
On Sunday mornings,
I believe that there is more to it than a church pew.
On other days, I am caught.
Between hospital beds
and the place where harsh words are said,
in that precarious, miraculous balance
I then feel it sustaining me.