Hero is not the word I would use to describe myself on August 20. The word I would use is vessel.
Natural selection is not the wind which propels the vessel, but the rudder which, by friction, now on this side and now on that, shapes the course.
I am the vessel. The draft is God’s. And God is the thirsty one.
She wept a river of tears holy water, sent to soften the sharp edges of sorrow a gentle hollowing out, carving new chambers in her hearta hallowed vessel for holding sacred, the tears of others…
—Kate Mullane Robertson
The sun had burned through and the day had gone from dull to dazzling, yet in the west blask-satin thunderheads continued to stack up. It was as if night has burst a blood-vessel in the...
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