Grace is simple elegance. Refinement of movement with ease. A spontaneous gift from God to his people. A prayer. It is all different forms of beauty.

Grace is the flocking of deer in a field. The softness of the sky radiating peaceful energy. In the distance, The sound of ocean waves hitting against sharp rocks. It is the taste of sweet lemons and the smell of fresh bread coming out of the oven. A sunday morning in Autumn . 

But Grace is not always beautiful. 

The sound is harsh when it is used to yell. It is loud. Overwhelming. A downward spiral. Like the rough tides in the ocean. The tears on a cheek. The heavy rain on a stormy day. Dripping, crashing, falling. Yes, Grace is not always beautiful—but nothing is always beautiful anway. 

My dad always called me Gracie. His little girl. His happy little Gracie. But that was years ago. And my nickname doesn’t fit me anymore. I am not the girl I used to be, and I didn’t grow into the woman people expected me to be. 

My father calls me Grace now, the sweetness deprived from his tone. He questions where his happy Gracie went. I ponder over the idea that she may never come back. 

I want to be called something else. Something powerful. Something that can be loved. Grace is not loved. Only a name used. Only a person used. No, Grace does not suit me. I want to be called something else. 

But Grace is all I will forever know, all I will forever be.