Sometimes my heart is stricken with grief or teeming with joy, desperately looking to relieve itself through speech.
However, if that cannot be so, let it be by written word that I find my respite.
Just as the autumn foliage turns its shade, my fickle heart often turns its face away from what it seeks most. The path is winding and winding, but the house at the top of the ridge emanates its glorious worth.
Let me reach that summit with you Lord, one word at a time.
A Reverie of Grace 