For a child’s innocence, my soul cries out on heavy days. What I would give to dine on milk when a lack of peace stays the food of grace from my mouth. Today, I read about perfection formed by forty days of flood and famine for the man who does not stray from the course determined by God.
The night always ends with the rising of a new day, and I find again the patient one waiting, smiling, and saying once more, “isn’t this the day I made?”
Gregor Southard 