There's an old hymn that we don't sing much any more, but it's worth re-visiting because the final verse puts words around the futility of language in expressing the inexpressible: "Could we with ink the ocean fill,And were the skies of parchment made,Were every stalk on earth a quill,And every man a scribe by trade;To… Continue reading When You Expect Nothing and Get the Gift of Everything
Living Our Days 