Receiving Grace
May 2026 Blog
Receiving Grace
May 2026 Blog
Receiving Grace
May 2026 Blog
By Maude Harrison-Hudson, M.Div.
By Maude Harrison-Hudson, M.Div.
By Maude Harrison-Hudson, M.Div.
(A Reflection for a Tender Season)
There are seasons when we strive, when we reach, stretch, and push ourselves to hold everything together. And then there are quieter seasons, almost imperceptible at first, when life begins to invite us into something different. Not more effort, but less. Not striving, but receiving.
This month, I find myself in that kind of season.
After a time of uncertainty, of wondering what might unfold, I have been met, not with disruption, but with steadiness. A kind word from a manager. A productive day that did not require urgency. Conversations that mattered, even if they were few. None of it is dramatic. All of it grace.
Grace often arrives this way, unannounced, unearned, and easy to overlook if we are only looking for something larger.
And yet, as this month unfolds, I am aware that we are moving toward a tender place on the calendar. Mother’s Day is approaching. For some, it will be a day of celebration. For others, it will carry the quiet weight of absence, longing, regret, or complicated love. For many, it will be all of these at once.
In my work as a bereavement counselor, I see how days like this can stir what has been gently held. Grief has a way of finding its way to the surface when the world is telling us what we are “supposed” to feel. Joy can feel out of reach. Or, just often, joy and sorrow sit side by side, asking to be acknowledged together.
Grace meets us here, too.
Grace does not ask us to feel something we do not feel. It does demand that we tidy up our grief or shape it into something more acceptable. Grace allows for truth. It makes room for whatever is present: love, loss, gratitude, pain, even numbness.
And perhaps most importantly, grace removes the burden of performance.
There is no “right way” to move through Mother’s Day.
Some will gather with family. Some will light a candle. Some will avoid the day altogether. Some will find themselves unexpectedly undone in the grocery store aisle or during a quiet moment at home. All of it belongs. All of it is human.
I think about my own life, about motherhood in all its forms. The joy, the heartbreak, the places where I showed up well, and the places where I fell short. The children I have loved, the losses I have carried, the moments of connection that came too late or just in time.
If I am not careful, I can revisit these memories with judgment. I can measure what was given against what was missed. I can wonder if I did enough, if I was enough.
But grace speaks differently.
Grace does not erase the past, but it softens how I hold it. It reminds me that I loved as I knew how to love at the time. That I was growing, even when I could not see it. That reconciliation, when it came, was not something I manufactured, but something I received.
Grace allows me to remember without condemning myself.
It allows me to honor what was, without being trapped there.
In recovery, I have learned that I do the footwork, and I leave the results to a power greater than myself. That, too, is a form of grace. I show up. I make amends where I can. I remain open. And then I trust that what unfolds is held in something larger than my own effort.
This is not always easy. There is a part of me that still wants to earn peace, to work for it, to deserve it, to make it happen. But peace, like grace, does not come through striving. It comes through surrender.
Receiving grace requires something of me, too. It asks that I loosen my grip. That I release the need to control outcomes. That I trust that I am held, even when I am uncertain.
It asks that I believe this simple truth: I do not have to do everything. I only have to do what is mine to do.
And perhaps this Mother’s Day, whether it finds me in joy, in sorrow, or somewhere in between, I can practice receiving grace in its simplest form.
A quiet moment.
A memory held gently.
A tear that is allowed to fall without explanation.
A sense that love, once given, is never entirely lost.
Grace does not rush me forward.
It meets me exactly where I am.
As I move through this month, I want to practice grace in its quieter forms, the steady rhythm of a day that unfolds without crisis, the warmth of connection, the soft landing at the end of a long day. These are not small things. They are the very substance of a life being lived with intention and care.
Today, I am learning not just to work, not just to serve, but to receive.
And that, too, is enough.
For Reflection
Where is grace meeting you today, perhaps in a way you almost missed?
And what might it look like to receive it, just as it is?
Closing Prayer
God,
Help me to receive what You so freely give,
In this tender season, where love and loss often walk side by side, steady my heart.
When I am tempted to measure or judge my life, remind me that I am held in Your mercy.
Soften the memories that ache, and bless the ones that bring comfort.
For those who grieve, bring peace.
For those who celebrate, bring gratitude.
For all of us, bring the quiet assurance that we are not alone.
Teach me to live this day with open hands, to receive grace without resistance, and to trust that what has been given in love is never lost.
Amen
(A Reflection for a Tender Season)
There are seasons when we strive, when we reach, stretch, and push ourselves to hold everything together. And then there are quieter seasons, almost imperceptible at first, when life begins to invite us into something different. Not more effort, but less. Not striving, but receiving.
This month, I find myself in that kind of season.
After a time of uncertainty, of wondering what might unfold, I have been met, not with disruption, but with steadiness. A kind word from a manager. A productive day that did not require urgency. Conversations that mattered, even if they were few. None of it is dramatic. All of it grace.
Grace often arrives this way, unannounced, unearned, and easy to overlook if we are only looking for something larger.
And yet, as this month unfolds, I am aware that we are moving toward a tender place on the calendar. Mother’s Day is approaching. For some, it will be a day of celebration. For others, it will carry the quiet weight of absence, longing, regret, or complicated love. For many, it will be all of these at once.
In my work as a bereavement counselor, I see how days like this can stir what has been gently held. Grief has a way of finding its way to the surface when the world is telling us what we are “supposed” to feel. Joy can feel out of reach. Or, just often, joy and sorrow sit side by side, asking to be acknowledged together.
Grace meets us here, too.
Grace does not ask us to feel something we do not feel. It does demand that we tidy up our grief or shape it into something more acceptable. Grace allows for truth. It makes room for whatever is present: love, loss, gratitude, pain, even numbness.
And perhaps most importantly, grace removes the burden of performance.
There is no “right way” to move through Mother’s Day.
Some will gather with family. Some will light a candle. Some will avoid the day altogether. Some will find themselves unexpectedly undone in the grocery store aisle or during a quiet moment at home. All of it belongs. All of it is human.
I think about my own life, about motherhood in all its forms. The joy, the heartbreak, the places where I showed up well, and the places where I fell short. The children I have loved, the losses I have carried, the moments of connection that came too late or just in time.
If I am not careful, I can revisit these memories with judgment. I can measure what was given against what was missed. I can wonder if I did enough, if I was enough.
But grace speaks differently.
Grace does not erase the past, but it softens how I hold it. It reminds me that I loved as I knew how to love at the time. That I was growing, even when I could not see it. That reconciliation, when it came, was not something I manufactured, but something I received.
Grace allows me to remember without condemning myself.
It allows me to honor what was, without being trapped there.
In recovery, I have learned that I do the footwork, and I leave the results to a power greater than myself. That, too, is a form of grace. I show up. I make amends where I can. I remain open. And then I trust that what unfolds is held in something larger than my own effort.
This is not always easy. There is a part of me that still wants to earn peace, to work for it, to deserve it, to make it happen. But peace, like grace, does not come through striving. It comes through surrender.
Receiving grace requires something of me, too. It asks that I loosen my grip. That I release the need to control outcomes. That I trust that I am held, even when I am uncertain.
It asks that I believe this simple truth: I do not have to do everything. I only have to do what is mine to do.
And perhaps this Mother’s Day, whether it finds me in joy, in sorrow, or somewhere in between, I can practice receiving grace in its simplest form.
A quiet moment.
A memory held gently.
A tear that is allowed to fall without explanation.
A sense that love, once given, is never entirely lost.
Grace does not rush me forward.
It meets me exactly where I am.
As I move through this month, I want to practice grace in its quieter forms, the steady rhythm of a day that unfolds without crisis, the warmth of connection, the soft landing at the end of a long day. These are not small things. They are the very substance of a life being lived with intention and care.
Today, I am learning not just to work, not just to serve, but to receive.
And that, too, is enough.
For Reflection
Where is grace meeting you today, perhaps in a way you almost missed?
And what might it look like to receive it, just as it is?
Closing Prayer
God,
Help me to receive what You so freely give,
In this tender season, where love and loss often walk side by side, steady my heart.
When I am tempted to measure or judge my life, remind me that I am held in Your mercy.
Soften the memories that ache, and bless the ones that bring comfort.
For those who grieve, bring peace.
For those who celebrate, bring gratitude.
For all of us, bring the quiet assurance that we are not alone.
Teach me to live this day with open hands, to receive grace without resistance, and to trust that what has been given in love is never lost.
Amen
(A Reflection for a Tender Season)
There are seasons when we strive, when we reach, stretch, and push ourselves to hold everything together. And then there are quieter seasons, almost imperceptible at first, when life begins to invite us into something different. Not more effort, but less. Not striving, but receiving.
This month, I find myself in that kind of season.
After a time of uncertainty, of wondering what might unfold, I have been met, not with disruption, but with steadiness. A kind word from a manager. A productive day that did not require urgency. Conversations that mattered, even if they were few. None of it is dramatic. All of it grace.
Grace often arrives this way, unannounced, unearned, and easy to overlook if we are only looking for something larger.
And yet, as this month unfolds, I am aware that we are moving toward a tender place on the calendar. Mother’s Day is approaching. For some, it will be a day of celebration. For others, it will carry the quiet weight of absence, longing, regret, or complicated love. For many, it will be all of these at once.
In my work as a bereavement counselor, I see how days like this can stir what has been gently held. Grief has a way of finding its way to the surface when the world is telling us what we are “supposed” to feel. Joy can feel out of reach. Or, just often, joy and sorrow sit side by side, asking to be acknowledged together.
Grace meets us here, too.
Grace does not ask us to feel something we do not feel. It does demand that we tidy up our grief or shape it into something more acceptable. Grace allows for truth. It makes room for whatever is present: love, loss, gratitude, pain, even numbness.
And perhaps most importantly, grace removes the burden of performance.
There is no “right way” to move through Mother’s Day.
Some will gather with family. Some will light a candle. Some will avoid the day altogether. Some will find themselves unexpectedly undone in the grocery store aisle or during a quiet moment at home. All of it belongs. All of it is human.
I think about my own life, about motherhood in all its forms. The joy, the heartbreak, the places where I showed up well, and the places where I fell short. The children I have loved, the losses I have carried, the moments of connection that came too late or just in time.
If I am not careful, I can revisit these memories with judgment. I can measure what was given against what was missed. I can wonder if I did enough, if I was enough.
But grace speaks differently.
Grace does not erase the past, but it softens how I hold it. It reminds me that I loved as I knew how to love at the time. That I was growing, even when I could not see it. That reconciliation, when it came, was not something I manufactured, but something I received.
Grace allows me to remember without condemning myself.
It allows me to honor what was, without being trapped there.
In recovery, I have learned that I do the footwork, and I leave the results to a power greater than myself. That, too, is a form of grace. I show up. I make amends where I can. I remain open. And then I trust that what unfolds is held in something larger than my own effort.
This is not always easy. There is a part of me that still wants to earn peace, to work for it, to deserve it, to make it happen. But peace, like grace, does not come through striving. It comes through surrender.
Receiving grace requires something of me, too. It asks that I loosen my grip. That I release the need to control outcomes. That I trust that I am held, even when I am uncertain.
It asks that I believe this simple truth: I do not have to do everything. I only have to do what is mine to do.
And perhaps this Mother’s Day, whether it finds me in joy, in sorrow, or somewhere in between, I can practice receiving grace in its simplest form.
A quiet moment.
A memory held gently.
A tear that is allowed to fall without explanation.
A sense that love, once given, is never entirely lost.
Grace does not rush me forward.
It meets me exactly where I am.
As I move through this month, I want to practice grace in its quieter forms, the steady rhythm of a day that unfolds without crisis, the warmth of connection, the soft landing at the end of a long day. These are not small things. They are the very substance of a life being lived with intention and care.
Today, I am learning not just to work, not just to serve, but to receive.
And that, too, is enough.
For Reflection
Where is grace meeting you today, perhaps in a way you almost missed?
And what might it look like to receive it, just as it is?
Closing Prayer
God,
Help me to receive what You so freely give,
In this tender season, where love and loss often walk side by side, steady my heart.
When I am tempted to measure or judge my life, remind me that I am held in Your mercy.
Soften the memories that ache, and bless the ones that bring comfort.
For those who grieve, bring peace.
For those who celebrate, bring gratitude.
For all of us, bring the quiet assurance that we are not alone.
Teach me to live this day with open hands, to receive grace without resistance, and to trust that what has been given in love is never lost.
Amen