I have hidden your word in my heart, that I might not sin against you.
I rise early, before the sun is up; I cry out for help and put my hope in your words. I stay awake through the night, thinking about your promise.
Psalm 119:11, 147-148
O Jerusalem, I have posted watchmen on your walls; they will pray day and night, continually. Take no rest, all you who pray to the Lord. Give the Lord no rest until he completes his work, until he makes Jerusalem the pride of the earth.
Isaiah 62:6-7
But we belong to God, and those who know God listen to us. If they do not belong to God, they do not listen to us. That is how we know if someone has the Spirit of truth or the spirit of deception.
We love each other because he loved us first.
1 John 4: 6, 19
Once you've heard a child cry out to heaven for help,
and go unanswered,
nothing's ever the same again.
Nothing.
Even God changes.
But there is a healing hand at work
that cannot be deflected from its purpose.
I just can't make sense of it, other than to cry.
Those tears are part of what it is to be a monk.
Out there, in the world, it can be very cold.
It seems to be about luck, good and bad,
and the distribution is absurd.
We have to be candles, burning between hope and despair,
faith and doubt, life and death,
all the opposites.