A mother wraps baby in blanket, rocks her to lullaby of tranquil bosom. How is baby Annalise? She wants to know. With a quick sigh she says, “Elle est bien, Grâce à Dieu,” while bullets pierce green banana leaves in yards, and in fields nearby.

An entire nation says, “By the grace of God we live.” The daily question, “How are you?” Answered, “I’m well, by the grace of God—Bien, Grâce à Dieu.   

Long ago, after leaving my country, I would self-consciously drop that end phrase, Grâce à Dieu. My sister, would pause like a cloud, waiting for the words before unveiling sun any further. Mother always finished it for me.

Now, I find sustenance in those words like ripe mangoes at the street market being shared with a friend, Bien,Grâce à Dieu.