The Unasked-for Moments

 

Sometimes the hardest grace is keeping my mouth shut, letting someone else’s story breathe without trying to edit the ending.

Not every crossroads needs my compass. Not every ache needs my remedy. Some journeys just want a witness, a nod that says I see you, not a lecture that says "what you need to do".

Lord, teach me the difference between guiding and grabbing the wheel, between honoring someone’s path and dragging them onto mine.

There’s a quiet virtue in letting another soul unfold without comparison, correction, or the urge to play teacher, When life is asking me to sit in the student’s chair for a while.

So today I'll practice the soft skills: a listening ear, a gentle presence, a simple acknowledgment that a brand‑new day is enough even if the sun doesn’t show up loud about it.

Some things grow better in the shade anyway.

Be Blessed! wcd

I Could Use Some Hope

 

I could use some hope.

Not the loud kind… just a little spark,

something steady enough to hold onto.

I’m on my way to eighty, and I know I won’t be climbing any new mountains or changing the world in some grand way.

Truth is, the things that once lit me up don’t always do it anymore. Some days feel flat. Some days feel like reruns.

I look back and think about all the chances I let slip because I was scared… scared of failing, scared of what people might say, scared of being too much or not enough.

I wish I’d loved harder, traveled farther, listened longer, and stopped trying to be everything to everybody.

I wish I’d trusted myself sooner.

But I’m still here. And maybe that means the story isn’t finished.

Maybe there’s still time to open the door a little wider, breathe a little deeper, and let whatever comes next be enough.

Maybe hope doesn’t show up all at once. Maybe it comes in small pieces; a quiet morning, a good conversation, a moment where the world feels soft again.

I could use some hope. And maybe… just maybe… it’ll be enough.

Friendships Lost

I waited for you.
But you never came back.
And somewhere between the years and the silence,
I learned how absence can take up more space
than your presence ever did.

We once walked side by side,
believing time would always bend
to keep us friends.
But life has a way of pulling threads,
quietly at first,
then all at once,
until the fabric you trusted
is just loose strings in your hands.

I kept a place in my mind for you,
not out of hope,
but out of habit;
a small corner of my life
where your laughter still echoed
long after you had stopped laughing.
But corners gather dust,
And even memories get tired
of being the only ones who show up.

Some friendships don’t end. They fade,
like a photograph left in the sun,
still recognizable,
but missing the color
that once made it real.

And still,
on certain days when the past feels close,
I feel the ghost of the friends we were
brush past me,
as if checking whether I’m still here.
I am.
But I’m different now.
Loss does that.

I waited for you.
But you never came back.
And maybe that’s the part
I’m finally learning to accept,
that not every story
gets the ending it deserved,
and not every friend
is meant to stay.

wcd

How Church Used to Be

Church is different now,
quieter in some ways, louder in others,
cooler air, brighter lights,
and a band up front performing
the same two songs fifteen times
until the words feel more rehearsed
than prayed.

Nothing wrong with it.
People mean well.
But sometimes I miss the way it used to be,
when faith felt like family,
And Sunday wasn’t a show
but a gathering of folks
doing their best to hold each other up.

Those days are gone,
tucked away like old hymnals
with frayed corners and Bibles with penciled notes,
songs you didn’t just sing,
You knew them,
because they’d carried you through something.

But they still hum inside me,
soft and steady,
like a memory that refuses to fade,
a reminder of where I learned
What grace really sounds like.

wcd

A Life Measured in Quiet Things

I find myself, these days,
slipping backward through halls of memory,
touching the doorframes of old classrooms,
pulpits, blank canvases, half‑filled notebooks,
wondering what any of it added up to.

I was a teacher once,
planting ideas like seeds in soil
I would never see again.
Some sprouted. I think.
Some may have withered.
Most grew in places I’ll never walk.

I was a preacher, too,
sending words into the air
like birds released from my hands,
hoping they’d land somewhere soft,
Somewhere needed.
Hoping they’d matter.

I wrote things down,
trying to catch the truth
before it slipped away.
I painted, too,
color where there had been none,
shape where there had been only feeling.

And now I ask myself,
as the road behind grows longer
than the road ahead:
What difference did I make?
Will the world notice when I’m gone?

But maybe the world is not the witness
I should be looking for.
Maybe legacy is quieter than I imagined,
a student who still remembers a sentence I forgot saying,
a sermon that steadied someone on a night
I never knew was dangerous,
a painting that made one person breathe easier,
a line in a book that helped someone feel less alone.

Maybe the measure of a life
is not the noise it leaves behind,
But the gentleness it offered
in moments that asked for it.

And if that is true,
Then perhaps my life
has been larger than I knew,
woven into other lives
in ways I’ll never see,
but ways that mattered
all the same.

wcd