This morning, I read Emily Dickinson:
The only news I know
Is bulletins all day
From immortality
I'm on the look out all day for heaven's news: inklings, whispers, hints.
Here, we clean toilets and scrub dried egg from the breakfast dishes. I have nothing to report but that heaven reaches down into even the toilet, even the dried egg. Immanuel--God with us--even here. Is there a better story anywhere? That's the only real news I know.
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Do you see whispers of God in the ordinary cleaning day?
As I am mopping floors, trying to keep Walter from drinking the wash water, I feel at peace - I don't have a glamorous life but it is a life of service; seeing God through small joys and loud dogs; patients not getting better and those who wondrously recover well.
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