A Little Grace Goes a Long Way

It was one of those mornings where the coffee maker sputtered like it needed last rites, the dogs decided my boot was breakfast, and I realized too late that I’d put on two different socks—again. I mumbled something unholy and shuffled out the door, figuring if this was the start, the rest of the day might be a dress rehearsal for Judgment.

Now, I ain’t no saint. I’ve had a few too many disagreements with fences, deadlines, and certain bureaucrats to float that high. But–I do talk to God now and then.

Not always on my knees—most times behind the wheel, sometimes staring at the ceiling when sleep refuses to join me. This particular day, I muttered, “Dear God, we could use a little more heaven down here.”

I wasn’t being dramatic. I’d just come from the grocery store, where a lady clipped my heels with her cart and then looked at me like I owed her an apology.

Somewhere between the canned beans and the checkout line, I saw a man arguing with a clerk about expired coupons as if it were a matter of national security. It was just one of those days where everyone seemed two degrees hotter than their patience could handle.

Later, I sat on my front porch bench nursing a bruised heel, a lukewarm coffee, and my faith in humanity. That’s when I saw her—probably seven or eight years old, little red cowboy boots and a face full of determination.

She was holding a popsicle like it was a sword, melting faster than she could manage. In front of her was a pigeon with a bad foot—hobbling around in that sad little lopsided way that pigeons sometimes do.

She bent down, broke off a piece, and set it gently near the bird. “There you go, mister bird,” she whispered, “you look like you’ve had a rough day.”

Now, maybe the bird didn’t understand her, but I sure did. That tiny moment of grace, unnoticed by everyone except me and that broken-footed pigeon, was the kind of heaven I’d been asking for.

And wouldn’t you know it, the universe has a way of doubling down. An elder man—white hair, denim shirt tucked in tight—came by with a broom and dustpan, tidying up the sidewalk like it was his sacred duty.

“City don’t pay me,” he said with a wink, “but I still live here.” I nodded.

We didn’t need to say much more.

So maybe heaven isn’t pearly gates and a choir of angels. Maybe–it’s a kid sharing kindness with a bird or a man taking pride in a clean sidewalk. It might be a stranger holding the door or someone calling to say they miss your voice.

I don’t know much, but I know this–we ain’t short on Hell down here. It’s easy to find—turn on the news or try renewing your license.

But heaven? It’s quieter. It appears in small places, like wildflowers in the cracks of a broken sidewalk.

So, yeah—Dear God, we could use a little more heaven down here. Maybe He already sent it, but we’re just too angry to notice