Grace

The hills were quiet that morning. A light breeze moved through the olive trees, and the sun had just started rising when Grace stepped outside. Her hands were rough from years at the loom, the kind of work that didn’t make a person rich but helped people stay warm through the colder months. She’d been weaving since she was a girl. Over time, the fabric started holding more than thread. Her pieces carried stories, even if most people didn’t notice.

She was tying off a new section when she saw him. A man—quiet, steady—walking into the village as if he already belonged. The way he carried himself, there was no rush, no need to prove anything. Some of the villagers called him Jesus. Others just stood and listened.

He found a place beneath the old oak tree and began speaking. He didn’t shout. He didn’t push. He talked about sheep getting lost, about seeds growing into trees, about the kind of faith that starts small and becomes something solid over time. Grace didn’t mean to stop working, but her hands fell still. She listened.

When the crowd faded back to their homes, he looked over at her. It wasn’t the kind of glance that passed by. It was the kind that sees.

“What’s weighing on you, Grace?” he asked, his voice steady.

She hadn’t planned to say anything. But it came out. Her mother was fading—slowly slipping into confusion and silence. The land had gone dry again, and she was already bracing for a thin winter. And she was tired. Tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix.

Jesus didn’t interrupt. He didn’t offer quick solutions or try to make it sound easier than it was.

He just listened.

Then he said, “Your faith has already moved mountains inside you. Even a small seed grows if you give it time. God sees you, Grace. He knows what you need.”

He came with her to the house. Sat with her mother. There wasn’t a miracle, not in the way people expected. But something changed. Her mother’s breathing slowed. Her eyes opened. And peace—real peace—filled the room like the quiet after rain.

Later, he walked through the fields and placed his hand on the soil. He didn’t promise a sudden harvest. But there was a calmness in the way he blessed the land, like he was saying, Your work isn’t in vain. Keep going.

Grace went back to her loom. The threads were the same, but her heart wasn’t. She kept weaving, and in her own way, she carried his words into the homes of the village—one blanket, one shawl, one story at a time.

She grew older. Slower. Her back bent a little more each year. But she never stopped telling the story—not because everything got easier, but because she was given the strength to keep going. That was enough.

"...For truly I say to you, if you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. And nothing will be impossible for you."—Matthew 17:20