What I am I am by grace.


          Still, Stephen’s face invades my stupors—stilled,
upraised, afire. He hurled such honed desire 
the cosmos, like a canvas, caught and tore
and God outpoured in chance apocalypse. 
          Struck by his stricken countenance,
I tracked his gaze, but all my scaling eyes
observed was a single pigeon trace the curve
of the sealed sky. As Stephen died, I thought 
the bird reflected a flash of glimmering light. 
          How could you describe a state
like mine? I saw the timeless enter time
and still did not believe. My infant faith
emerged, sputtered and huffed in agonal breath, 
and blued and cooled in the newer, purer air.

          There, as to one untimely born,
our Lord appeared, breathing his searing life 
into my faith. 


                    This grace was not in vain.

This article appears in April 2026.

Daniel Luttrull is a doctoral student at Case Western Reserve University in Ohio, where he lives with his wife and children. He has written essays for Christianity and Literature and Front Porch Republic and poetry for First Things.