distress to salvation

my imagination has withered. i credit my job. sometimes i raise my eyes heavenward and whisper to my Maker, "how long? will there ever be anything else for me in terms of work?"

i am worn and on the verge of collapsing.

but i consider the lovely things that have grown from the drudgery. things that i would not call vanity. the red flower, unknowingly triumphant against a barren landscape. i am thankful. but can i be thankful even in my discontent?

i see glimpses of rescue. for others. for myself. for all of us together.

i read books. i imagine a restored land. i rest my head on the shoulder of the Crucified.

work. rest. hope.