Wednesday, December 15, 2021

Gray skies, morning gloom. Unmoving I sit. Are you speaking to me in this mist? I strain and lean forward to hear.

I do not see the sun already burning away the clouds from the top down. I need do no more than sit and soon all is bright.

Mood lifts. Is this Providence? Did I not already have reason to sing?

Lord, teach me joy no matter the skies.

(Letter #2,531)