Holy are the Tabithas

Holy are the Tabithas—
the ones who mother us,
with compassion and radiant good works.

When a soul wonders if they are enough,
let their community gather—
holding memory for them,
garments, love, and legacy held close.

Send for Peter.
Send for hope.

“Beloved, rise,”
they said.

And they opened their eyes.

You have clothed us in your radiance—
a love that lingers,
like thread in the seams,
like breath in the bones,
like the story of the one who stands
between us and the storm,
glowing faintly in the half-light,
glitter caught in the storm-wind,
reminding us:
death is not the end of the story.
Joy rises, too. Like morning.

Written with gratitude for all those who have mothered me in the church—and all who’ve ever let a child tuck flowers or glitter into their hair.

You are seen.

Poeticreflection on Acts 9:36–43, grief, legacy, and the sacred labor of love that raises us