God gives me the words to write; they are not mine. I know this because they flow effortlessly onto the screen. Thought has little or nothing to do with what appears here.

Thanksgiving morning finds me quiet. I know nothing about celebration. All I know is the everyday, which is quite enough for me.

The streaked sliding glass doors, the noise of a leaf blower somewhere in the neighborhood, the hidden stream of sorrow that powers my life. Yes, I said it. It is not joy that helps me to grow, but the sorrow. Jesus was a man of sorrows. I know this is my life pattern that must be played out.

But I have done my best with it, all things considered. My work arises from it. Resurrections of the heart happen because of it.

Take this for what it is worth, for you may or may not resonate. This is not about depression, but the very real sorrow of this world.

It is a good thing that Jesus said His Kingdom was not here.

We find ourselves when we lose ourselves to this earth and rise into our eternal state.

Vicki Woodyard