Sunday, November 7, 2021

O glorious morn, you shine upon me with chilly light.

I fret and labor over my ability to pass on your love. Why? Does not the sun shine on all, regardless of my effort? Not even my sloth can stop your providential love.

What, then, my duty? I work at the margins, and try to awaken my neighbors to all the power they already have. A simple gardener, it is not I who do the growing, but the plants. I clear away weeds and keep the soil moist.

O glorious morn, let me tell your story.

(Letter #2,493)