Snow flurries marched across the field like ghostly soldiers
at 8 am. The temperature has plummeted yet the sun, now, is out, as is my
washing.
I live in hope, but my expectation is that the clothes will
be carried back inside in the late afternoon, stiff as boards and still wet.
Someone defined Christian hope as the confident expectation
that God will turn up, and that he is good, always good.
With that hope in mind, I pray into the darkness that is
Covid and environmental degradation and political upheaval, and see a light at
the end of the tunnel.
May that light not be the proverbial on-coming train, but
the Light of the World. May we all rest in the assurance of that hope.
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