I've been mourning (at least the temporary) loss of a dream . . . of a place for myself in the world. And in that holy, sacred space of mourning -- just a simple sunrise prayer corner where I lift my hands and my heart to God -- I have wondered in the waiting. So He has taught me to see . . . to come alive . . . in the sacred spaces of the seemingly ordinary . . .
A rocking chair at 3am. . . A simple farmhouse quietly disguised among untold riches . . . An airplane window seat over a St. Louis sunset . . .
A meandering river with time to remember . . .
And the finest line between holy daring and lunatic crazy . . .
That holy place just between dawn and daybreak . . . in thankful November . . .
And a warm place to grow . . .