Thursday, December 31, 2020

The soil is stony, yet still comes bounty.

A windswept ridge, yet still my bed is dry.

A drought, yet I thrive.

These hard days conspire, yet you have been the wind at my back. Daily you visit, a friend.

Lord, how possibly could I still stand? You steady me, a nurse to the aged.

O gratitude! I am insufficiency made flesh. Yet you stay with me.

Let me not forget.

(Letter #2,182)