Most-high, all-powerful, good Lord,

Good Lord, I am overwhelmed.

You alone are in control,

because, frankly, I don't feel very much in control.

Blessed are those who endure in peace.

Endure.

That's increasingly hard to do.

I'm not anxious to re-open, to re-expose myself or my wife.

I'm am anxious that I too-well understand the nature of humankind;

We have to do things the hard way,

but we won't learn as a result of that hard way.

You are praised, even through our Sister, Bodily Death,

from whom no one living can escape.

That should come as a comfort, and I suppose it does.

We will all die.

I just we didn't have to be so proud as a people about dying "on our own freedom-flaunting terms."

Woe to those who die in defiance.

Whether they die for their own defiance,

but even more for those who will suffer because of someone else's.

Woe to the testimony of "the faithful,"

It is infected, and is too focused on being in their cathedrals

rather than being the Good Neighbor.

Fragility.

I want my sister and my brother to cease from wielding their freedom swords.

I want truth and love to be part of the same equation.

It's eight weeks in, and the doors are swinging wide open.

Give me peaceful rest from the bad dreams,

The line between nightmare and life is thinning.

Still, let me give thanks,

and serve with great humility.