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In the night, when ego has fled, self sinks into bed and soul rises to its Keeper.

Motives awakened, He traces His fingers across dreams, morning separating night, joints from marrow, soul from spirit.

Is it strange that He gives talents and abilities then uses weaknesses, calls us from comfort into discomfort, gives us free choice then asks for surrender?

In frustration I stop, I have learned to sit still until my bones ache.

Squinting into the dark sky, I can just barely see one lone star. The Lodestar is distant, hidden and out of reach.

In shades of navy-blue transforming from pitch-black as the sun on its axis nears the horizon, I imagine a star-filled sky on a clear winter’s night and shiver.

Who can count the stars or cover them with a cloak? Who can see into the soul’s navy-blue or pitch-black and on this soul, reaching beyond the sky’s lofty beauty and the sea’s rumbling depths, trace dreams never captured, sins unknown, then sketch them into nature’s composition?

All will be brought into the light in His light. He is the Morningstar and the night’s bright light. He is the Lodestar.

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