Sunday, November 1, 2020

Guilty, guilty, guilty, goes the chant. I awaken with thoughts of all that is undone, how I have fallen short.

What a haze of self-made woe. I am sheltered, fed, and it is a day of rest. Yet I gnash my teeth.

I tremble so; my hair is on end. Soothe me, Lord. Make me into a grateful being.

(Letter #2,122)