Thursday, March 6


On dark winter days when I feel  there is no god, I drown in doubt and discontent.  But as the sun rises earlier, I can look through south-facing windows of our small house halfway up the hill of Little Nahant, and see glory spread across the sky.  Bare trees are stirring in the wind. Nest-building birds criss-cross my view. A dog wants food, a cat wants out.  Once a hawk sat a long time on a branch, neither hunting nor killing. I hear people in the big house below us, I hear the newspaper rustling in her hands. She sighs, and as I complete my seventy-eighth year, God begins to breathe again. But dark days will return, and I will need your prayers.

— Con Squires