Ten Things I Know for Sure

God is good,
even when the news is not,
even when the plan doesn’t land,
even when I forget.

People bloom
when given light—
a listening ear,
a meaningful task,
a seat at the table.

Peace is worth more
than being right
about the colour of the chairs
or the pace of the meeting.
Some hills are not worth dying on.
Some are.

Words matter.
They hold,
they wound,
they bless.
A well-placed phrase
can shift the weather in a room.

The earth is not mute.
It sings in birdsong and snowfall,
in light illuminating a eucalypt,
in underground forests determined to renew,
in the silence before dawn.

Life isn’t ours to hoard.
Give it away—
in cups of tea,
in carefully chosen questions,
in standing still when someone weeps.

I no longer trust
any truth
that isn’t strong enough
to hold some contradiction.

Young adults don’t need fixing—
they need someone
to believe the light in them
was not a mistake.

Retirement is not a sigh
but a turning—
a quieter yes
to the same old call.

And love—
the quiet, long-game kind—
is everything.
A meal shared,
a hand held,
a home that holds
two names and one story.