In quiet rooms where silence grows,
Where weary hearts bear hidden throes,
There walks a soul with gentle grace—
A calm that time cannot erase.
Their hands, not marked by crown or fame,
Yet burn with love, a steady flame.
They do not speak of cures or plans,
They simply are—those healing hands.
They touch not just the flesh but soul,
Where broken parts might seek the whole.
A bandaged wound, a whispered cheer,
A steady pulse that draws us near.
In every stroke, in every press,
Is written care, is tenderness.
Not magic, no—but something more:
A peace we’d long forgotten for.
They carry strength not wrapped in might,
But in the will to set things right.
To stitch with hope, to soothe with balm,
To cradle pain and bring back calm.
And though the world may never see
Their quiet acts of mastery,
The lives they touch will understand
The grace within those healing hands.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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