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My Cross

My Cross is SmallDuring the early afternoon, the sun shines brightly through the stained glass window.  Amidst the dancing colors in the church pew, holding my small ivory cross, I sit alone and pray.  I pray for guidance and for strength.

We all have our crosses to bear. Some we chose for ourselves, others are given to us.  My cross is small – its burden, heavy.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of footsteps coming near.  A priest walks by, points to the shrouded figure in the Easter display and exclaims, “Isn’t it wonderful!  He has risen!  He is here!”  I want to respond but I remain silent as he hurriedly exits through the side door.  …

I am here.

Excerpt from Clay Diary, April 2000

Hear My Prayer

So many people praying, hoping for an answer. From every church, mosque, temple, altar, field, and bedroom.  Billions of people, down on their knees, pleading.  Can you hear their prayers?  The anguish, the sadness, the hope, the faith.  From the depths of their souls, they cry out.  For thousands of years, they have waited.  Can you hear them?

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