Wednesday, March 3, 2021

Time was when I ran from spot to spot. Now I walk, headwinds at every step. I must place my feet with care lest I slip.

Moving so slowly, Lord, I can see so much. What a gift born of struggle.

A gust may topple the shed, yet a constant slow wind carves mountains.

My steps, you make them inexorable.

Movement and sight, Lord, you bestow such subtle gifts.

(Letter #2,244)