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My fears and flaws demand my full attention. They insist that I ignore matters of the spirit—whether past, present, or future. They maroon me in the wasteland, far from food and company—when what is available to me is a table laden with bread and wine and companions for the journey, if only I’ll let myself be directed by the Wind that hovered over the water of creation. I want to see God’s creative spirit brooding like a bird over the abyss of my fear, but sometimes all I can see is the inky blackness.
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