“Blessed is the man….” Our class repeats Psalm 1. Rhythmically. As directed by the professor.
And years later the words return to my mind. With a beat.
His Word.
Faithful and true.

“Blessed is the man….” Our class repeats Psalm 1. Rhythmically. As directed by the professor.
And years later the words return to my mind. With a beat.
His Word.
Faithful and true.

On beach vacations in my childhood, I made little sand bowls. Piled up a mountain of sand, scooped out the top, then slowly poured a cup of water in.
It baked in the tropical heat. And I baked in the tropical heat. Then, brushing away the loose sand, I lifted out a fragile oddly-shaped sand bowl.
The momentary art of a child at play.
The surf moved in and out. I sat in the vast ocean holding my little creation. A large wave drenched me. The bowl dissolved. Wet sand ran through my fingers in the waves. Delightful.
Then I made another one.