Dearly Beloved, Grace and Peace to you. You've got it backwards, my friend. You imagine trudging up the holy mountain, past the houses of the great saints. In their windows you can see them bent over their meditations, sharing warm stew with lepers, conversing with the Son of God, softly hovering above their prayer cushions. Angels swarm their porches to hear them pray. They look out their doors in the grey evening but they don't see you; they only see heaven looming in front of their faces while you stumble up the path.
No, dear, you have it backwards. You are the one who sees little as they struggle beside you up this slope that they've walked a thousand times before but have left their cottages and their ease and have come back to do again this once, winded and trembling, on ancient but hardy legs, bearing more of your burden than you know, and though you can't feel it, holding— so lightly— your hand.
Deep Blessings, Pastor Steve
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