Amid the balms of Gilead
Fridays can be days one looks forward to or days we dread, as we have that sixth sense, today they fire me, or the all come crashing down reality, unexpectedly, they did. It happened for one such. It’s happened to me, more than once. You never handle it gracefully. You fill your box and awkwardly go.
And so all Friday, I dwelt beneath the cloud.
Toward the end of day, finishing up at Dacier in Dowling Park, there in a side room off the main desk, an older gentleman was crooning on his guitar to the elderly lady residents. Love songs. But then, he began to sing the old hymn , the Love of God. I lingered. It was the balm from Gilead needed. I trust my friend with the box of belongings found her balm of Gilead too.
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