Lydia Grace, eight days old, on her patio in Tucson with Grandma

I’ve been out of commission since mid-April, attending to the birth of my youngest daughter’s first child. The newborn was eight days old when I held her in the courtyard of her Tucson home.

Her name is Lydia Grace. Her moms named her “Lydia” for one of the first Gentile Christians. Lydia was a strong, independent, Greek business woman, “a dealer in purple cloth.” They named her “Grace” because Grace is a family name on both sides. Besides, in Christian tradition, grace is a gift of God’s love, and this precious infant is most definitely a divine gift in all our lives.

I’m relearning the story of the ancient Lydia to tell to my little Lydia Grace the next time I travel to Tucson. I hope for her, as for all her generation, a world more reflective of Jesus’ way of peace. That is a primary reason I learn, tell, and teach the stories of God.

One of the hardest realities for incarcerated women is separation from their children. They bear this grief as best they can (sometimes, I think, by toughening their hearts) but it is ever-present. When I look at this photo I yearn to hold Lydia Grace again before she grows another day older. I feel sadness that holding her right now is not possible. She lives in Arizona and I live in Ohio. We’re three time zones apart.

So for all of us who are separated from beloved children—whether by bars, razor wire, distance, or immigration policy—a prayer:

Creator God, who blesses the world with new life and new possibility every time a child is born, grant us comfort and understanding while we are separated from them.

Holy Spirit, who is present with each child born, inspire us with your wisdom to gently support the adults caring for them.

Rabbi Jesus, who embraced little children and recognized their value, teach us to tell your stories to our children: over the phone, on a video call, during a visit, or when re-united.

Amen and amen.