I didn’t write this. My father did. He was pretty great…


Yesterdays linger and the past paints a vivid, sometimes ugly picture of life.

A flower, once crushed, timidly looks at the sun, and shudders at the pounding of the autumn rain afraid to be beautiful again.

A fawn, away from the unreal protection of youth, learns from the cruelty of an unnatural Nature the frightened instincts that God never meant His creatures to have.

The sea rushes unmercifully upon the rocks of the beach, and they become sands, worn and smooth, hardened from the beauty and stillness of that First day.

In the snows of winter, she grows cold and desolate; tears flow freely and the chill upon her cheek leaves doubt that the warmth of summer will ever melt the icy pain.

How can I touch a broken flower, or gain the trust of a frightened fawn? How can I tell the beaten sands that there can be solitude once more? How can I offer the comfort of warmth to one for whom frozen promises still linger so real?

I cannot. There is a lonely graciousness in dormant beauty. I can only offer my love – and what is love but unselfishness and understanding?

I will not reach for the flower, nor startle the timid fawn. I will speak no more to the unhearing sands and I will wait for the summer to come in its own season.

The sanctity of beauty, the lust for life itself, the security of quietness, and the gentle warmth of a summer day, must replace the dreams of sleepless nights… that in a Sometime we might share them as memories witnessing the fulfillment of Love.


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