Walk the rails under a high blue sky. Find the sag in the leaning fence, and step--carefully--over rusted wire. Follow a peninsula of blond grasses through a lake of loam, and come, at last, to the timber's edge where gray branches trace the sky and rose hips curl near purple canes.
Monday, May 16, 2011
On Giving up the Violin (or maybe, taking it up again)
Father, I am growing repulsed by the sound of my own voice. Teach me how to raise it up to You, thinking only of the beauty of the One it praises-- or maybe, too, seeing in it a sliver of Your creation, and so, a thing not to be despised.
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