WOMEN
& CHILDREN

Grace she isn’t always soft. She doesn’t come dressed in easy. She shows up barefoot, covered in the dust of what you survived, and still calls you beloved. See- humans keep receipts. But God? God keeps promises. Grace lives in the in-between that holy stretch of soil where your mistakes turn to medicine, where broken things bloom again. It’s that still voice that says, I can still use this. Grace is the art of God repainting your name after the world tried to write you off. She doesn’t erase the past- she redefines it. She takes shame, turns it into syllabus. Takes pain, turns it into paragraph. And whispers – Now teach what you survived. Grace – she’s heaven’s tutor. She’ll sit you down and say, Be accountable, but don’t forget you’re anointed. She wraps consequence in compassion, holds correction like a mother who still believes in you. It’s not about getting away- it’s about getting through. And coming out whole. And holy. That’s what grace does. She builds bridges between who you were and who you’re still becoming. She teaches you that resurrection isn’t just for Easter- it’s for every dawn you wake up and decide to begin again. And we we rise, still. Even when the nights were long, even when hope felt far, we rise, still. We bend, but don’t break. We weep, but don’t drown. We stumble, but somehow somehow grace keeps finding us. Because something holy lives in our survival. Because love refuses to let go. Because God keeps breathing on the ashes and calling them women again. We have walked through silence, through shelters, through storms with no names- and somehow found songs again. We’ve built homes out of heartbeats, made peace from the pieces, and dared to dream anyway. We are not what we lost. We are what remains. We are living proof that mercy has muscle, that healing has hands, that the Holy Spirit never stopped working miracles in human form. We rise, still. Every morning we rise again. Every prayer whispered under trembling breath- God heard. Every tear we tried to hide- God saw. Every time we wanted to quit- God said, Not yet. And so here we stand. Not just women finishing a chapter, but gardens in full bloom. Not just survivors, but stories made flesh. Grace and grit braided together. Heaven and healing in human form. So when they ask how we made it- we’ll smile, stand tall, and say- By grace. By God. And because-we rise, still.

– Neysa Rose –