After many a clouded day, I gaze out my window this morning to view the precious, azure sky. My heart leaps within me, and I pray that my hope may be realized. But I fear, lest my heart lift too high, lest it be dashed once more, for I cannot pick up the pieces—there’s always a little less of it after I paste it all together again.
“Not my will,” I say again and again, “but yours be done.” If my heart should be dashed, dash it, God. Break me if you will, for it’s your will I seek.
Tale Told 