A God In The Hand Is Worth

There Is A Fragrance In The Air, A Certain Passage Of A Song, An Old Photograph Falling Out From The Pages Of A Book, The Sound Of Somebody's Voice In The Hall That Makes Your Heart Leap And Fills Your Eyes With Tears. Who Can Say When Or How It Will Be That Something Easters Up Out Of The Dimness To Remind Us Of A Time Before We Were Born And After We Will Die?

I Was Deeply Influenced By An Episcopal Laywoman Named Agnes Sanford, Who In Her Day Was Quite Famous As A Faith Healer, Which Is A Term I've Always Distrusted, Because It Conjures Up Charlatanry. She Was Not A Charlatan. She Was The Real Thing, And She Had Had Remarkable Healings.

We Find By Losing. We Hold Fast By Letting Go. We Become Something New By Ceasing To Be Something Old. This Seems To Be Close To The Heart Of That Mystery. I Know No More Now Than I Ever Did About The Far Side Of Death As The Last Letting-go Of All, But Now I Know That I Do Not Need To Know, And That I Do Not Need To Be Afraid Of Not Knowing. God Knows. That Is All That Matters.

At The Evening Of Our Day, We Shall Be Judged By Our Loving.

Life Is Grace. Sleep Is Forgiveness. The Night Absolves. Darkness Wipes The Slate Clean, Not Spotless To Be Sure, But Clean Enough For Another Day's Chalking.