(June 23, 1940 – November 12, 1994) Sometimes history runs faster than doubt. Wilma Rudolph was born prematurely in Tennessee and spent much of her early childhood battling illnesses, including polio. Doctors warned that she might never walk normally again. For years she wore a leg brace. But Rudolph’s family refused to surrender to that prediction. With determination, therapy, and relentless support from her mother, Wilma eventually began walking without assistance. Soon she began running. And she did not stop. There is a verse in Philippians that says, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” For Wilma Rudolph, those words would come to life in the most extraordinary way. By the time she reached the 1960 Olympic Games in Rome, Rudolph had become one of the fastest women in the world. There she made history, winning three gold medals in track and field, becoming the first American woman to achieve that feat in a single Olympic Games. Her victories were not only athletic triumphs. They were symbols. At a time when segregation still divided much of America, Rudolph returned home to Tennessee and insisted that her hometown parade honoring her victory be integrated. It became the first racially integrated public celebration in Clarksville’s history. Wilma Rudolph ran past more than competitors. She ran past expectations. And in doing so, she reminded the world that sometimes faith, courage, and persistence can carry us farther than anyone ever imagined. Sometimes the world writes a story about what you cannot do. Wilma Rudolph once wore a leg brace and was told she might never walk normally again. Later, she became the fastest woman in the world. The miracle is not always that the path is easy. Sometimes the miracle is that you keep moving forward anyway.
Steps From Our Sisters Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us Curated by Michelle Gillison-Robinson DefyGravityWithoutWings.com
God of dirt under fingernails, of headlines and heartbeats, of babies born into chaos and mamas who don’t sleep. Lord hear our prayer Sit with us in sackcloth and ash.
Hear the Latina scream for her familia. Hear the Black mama beat her chest from the weight of knees and crushed souls Hear the confused person of no color whisper, “Am I next?”
See my father’s shadow. The brown father working double shifts with documents that feel like paper shields. The Black father teaching his son how to survive a traffic stop. The father from somewhere else trying to sound less foreign so his children sound more safe.
The one who has never been taught how to weep, but learns that privileged skin offers no protection.
Watch how they swallow fear so their families can eat. Watch how they stand tall while history presses down. Do not turn Your face from the trembling.
Is Abraham’s argument still valid? Is there still one worth saving? If there are fifty… If there are forty… If there are ten… Will mercy outrun destruction?
Because we be something else. We invent vaccines and vendettas. We cure disease and cultivate grudges. We build greenhouses and graveyards in the same generation.
We scream “save the babies” while demanding their mothers bleed in parking lots outside buildings bearing neon crosses and snakes on stakes.
And if that little bundle of hope takes breath….. we ration mercy. We starve truth. We feed them fear. We hand them a system and call it destiny.
Forgive us for mistaking loud for strong, revenge for justice, power for wisdom, money for mattering.
Slow the hands hovering over buttons. Cool the tongues that set nations on fire. Remind the mighty that bleeding does not discriminate.
When leaders puff up, deflate egos with a firm hand. When citizens rage-scroll at 3:33 a.m., tuck them back into cradles of mercy.
Teach us that being right is not the same thing as being righteous.
And teach us this, Lord – That Holy is set apart, not divided asunder.
Set apart does not mean split down the middle. It does not mean camps or corners or color-coded salvation.
Holy is not red. Holy is not blue. Holy is not loud.
Holy is careful. Holy is weighty. Holy is handled like heirloom glass passed from trembling hands.
Do not let us carve You up to fit our arguments. Do not let us drape Your name over fear and call it faith.
If we must be set apart, let it be in compassion. If we must be different, let it be in mercy. Separate us from cruelty. Separate us from arrogance. Separate us from the need to win at the cost of one another.
But do not divide us beyond repair. Remind us that what is sacred is never meant to be torn.
Lord Hear Our Prayer
For the refugee in the cold, the soldier on watch, the child learning history from a textbook that left something out — Cover them.
Guard democracy like a fragile seedling in late frost. Guard dignity like Grandma’s good china. Guard hope like a porch light left on for whoever comes home late.
When we start thinking the sky is falling, Whisper, “Dead and dormant are not the same thing.”
Let wars stall. Let hatred get tired. Let truth outlive the loud.
And if we must walk through fire, let it burn off what is false and leave what is faithful.
While presidents posture and pundits perform Let ordinary people sleep. Let Nama rest. Let grandchildren dream of gardens instead of sirens.
My bladed pen is hot. It does not drip ink. It draws blood from silence. It refuses anesthesia. I tire of gentle prayers that never name the wound.
If my words burn, let them cauterize. If they cut, let them carve truth from marble lies.
Out of all the people in this great big world, please hear me. Please know my voice. Hear me when I pray. For I will not whisper when my rib struggles to breathe.