Favorite books of 2025

This was a good year for reading and, while I can’t mention all the good books I read, I’ve put together a list of my favorites. I’m afraid the list is rather long. If necessary, forgive me. Or not. Some of these books I was able to discuss with members of the book club I belong to, a highlight of each month. In a way, I’m discussing them with you now. Please let me know your favorites from the year.

Fiction

Rachel Joyce, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry (2013): This was one of my favorites, about an ordinary old man who took on an extraordinary task, that of walking the length of England under the believe that this would save his friend from dying. He suffers, makes some strange friends, and reflects on his life.  A book about transformation. I also read the sequels, The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy (2014) and Maureen   (2022).

Rachel Joyce, Miss Benson’s Beetle (2020): Similar to Harold Fry, this story features a frumpy old spinster who has a passion for beetles. She decides to journey to New Caledonia to try and discover the fabled  Golden Beetle. Her quirky traveling companion and the adventures they encounter make this a highly entertaining, and inspiring, book.

Dean Koontz, The Bad Weather Friend (2024): A combination fantasy/suspense novel about Benny Catspaw, a man who is “too nice.” He gets fired from his job, loses his girlfriend, but discovers he has been assigned a craggle, a critter with supernatural powers who is like, but not the same as, a guardian angel. They battle global injustice and try to save the world from destruction. Very entertaining.

Sara Nisha Adams, The Reading List (2021): This very good novel weaves the stories of several people who all mysteriously find a list of books “for whoever needs them.” As people read, some of whom have not before been interested in literature, they come together and their lives are touched for the better. 

Colson Whitehead, The Nickel Boys (2019): This historical novel, a Pulitzer Prize winner, tells the story of the  Nickel Academy, a juvenile reformatory in Florida, based on a real school that operated for 111 years. It deals with injustice and cruelty, focusing on two boys, one of whom escapes. The story follows him through life as he tries to recover from the trauma. Hard to read, but important.

Jennifer Ryan, The Kitchen Front (2021): I loved this book—even cried at the end. The historical background is England during World War II and a BBC radio show, “The Kitchen Front,” that gave recipes to British housewives using only the rations granted. The story revolves around four women who enter a cooking contest, with prize being co-hosting the radio show.  (I also read The Underground Library, 2024, by the same author, another WWII historical novel of the library set up in an underground shelter in London during the blitz.)

Richard Powers, Playground (2024): Fascinating tale of four people whose lives finally converge on the island of Makatea, on the verge of a decision that will determine its future. The playground is 1) the ocean, the real protagonist of the book—its vastness, beauty, life, and endless variety and 2) a brilliant AI platform named “Playground” that threatens to overpower human intelligence. In a sense the book represents the contest between artificial intelligence, humanity, and the mysteries of nature.

Barbara Kingsolver, Prodigal Summer (2000): Takes place in the farms and forests of Southern Appalachia in a humid summer when everything seems to procreating—plants, animals, and complicated human beings. Three intertwined stories of people trying to find their relationship with nature—and with each other.

Linda Sue Part, A Single Shard (2001): This Newbury Award winner is the haunting story of an orphan boy in 12^th century China, homeless and living with an older man who is crippled. The boy, Tree-ear, becomes enchanted with the beautiful celadon pottery and is apprenticed to one of the skilled artists. Shows the boy growing, maturing, taking a great risk, and being rewarded beyond his expectations.

Ariel Lawhon, The Frozen River (2023): A stunning story based on the true history of Martha Ballard, a mid-wife and healer in colonial Maine, 1789. Martha becomes involved in solving a murder mystery, fighting the injustice of men in the town who are leaders and oppressors. I loved it for the view of colonial life; a midwife’s profession; the brave, intelligent, honest heroine; and the portrayal of a good marriage. A bit of brutality, but the topic was brutal and the author did not fudge. Or exaggerate.

Marie Benedict, The Mitford Affair (2023): Historical novel based on the Mitford sisters in upper society London in the years leading up to WWII. Two of the sisters become fascists, even being drawn into Hitler’s inner circle. The political and the personal intertwine when another of the sisters has to made a decision between family and country.

Marie Benedict, The Queens of Crime (2025): Incredibly clever plot has a group of female crime writers join to solve a real crime and thus prove their worth to the male writers who don’t give them their due respect. The leader of the group is Dorothy Sayers and her cohort is Agatha Christie, which makes the book especially fun to read.

 

Non-Fiction

John Simpson, The Word Detective: Searching for the Meaning of It All in the Oxford English Dictionary: A Memoir (2016): Simpson spent over four decades working for the OED, the last 20 of those years as Chief Editor. He relates the later history of the OED, from 1976 to 2013, including its breakthrough into the age of the Internet, making it accessible to the masses (me) as never before.

Alistar McGrath, C.S. Lewis: A Life (2013): Best biography of Lewis I’ve read. Learned a lot about his relationship with Mrs. Moore, his response to the war (refusing to deal with it), his relationship to Tolkien, the conflicts with Oxford, and his relationship with Joy. A treasure.

Connie Dawson, John Wimber: His Life and Ministry (2021): I learned a lot of details about his life, and especially his struggles and the attacks against him. The book summarized the tremendous influence of his life on the church.

Carolyn Maull McKinstry While the World Watched: A Birmingham Bombing Survivor Comes of Age during the Civil Rights Movement (2011): The author was a child and a member of the Birmingham Sixteenth Street Baptist Church that was bombed on Sept. 15, 1963. She tells the story of her experience, with background of the whole civil rights movement especially in Alabama. She details aftermath of the bombing, how it affected the country and how it affected her. Excellent resource for understanding the suffering from the black point of view.

Claire Hoffman, Sister, Sinner: The Miraculous Life and Mysterious Disappearance of Aimee Semple McPherson (2025): An incredible history and a well-documented book. Tracks her rise to fame as a powerful Spirit-filled preacher and evangelist, to the point where her crusades attracted thousands. Her mysterious disappearance in 1926 and later strange reappearance sparked controversy and court cases that drug on for several years and tarnished her reputation. Good book about a complex person.

Bianca Bosker, Get the Picture: a mind-bending journey among the inspired artists and obsession art fiends who taught me how to see (2024): Bosker, a journalist, decides to dive into the contemporary art scene in NYC, trying to understand the art, and why art in general matters. Has incredible experiences in the five years she ends up spending there. In some ways it reads like an anthropological case study. Fascinating.

Safiya Sinclair, How To Say Babylon: A Memoir (2023): One of the best books I’ve read this year. Sinclair tells of growing up in the Rastafarian sect in Jamaica, a “communistic Christian commune.” Learning about the sect was fascinating, but Sinclair’s personal story griped me more. In this male dominated culture, with the father as autocrat, she was abused into believing she had no worth. This is the story of her coming to discover her identity and rise to become a recognized writer and poet. A tribute to the human spirit.

Kristin Gault, The Way We Walked: Friendship, Faith and the Camino de Santiago (2025): the book chronicles the walk Kristin (my daughter) and her friend Heather took on the famous Camino de Santiago, starting in mid-Portugal and following the coast up to the northern Spanish city of Santiago, with its famous cathedral. Details the challenges the women faced—physical, mental, spiritual— the transformation it worked, and the satisfaction on reaching the goal. Interesting description, with lots of humor, as well as inspiration.

Poetry

Nancy Thomas, editor, An Arc of Grace: selections by Quaker poets of the Pacific Northwest (2026): Maybe putting this book on the list is cheating because it isn’t published yet. But I spent a good part of the year with the poems of 14 good Quaker poets, and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. The book includes black-and-white photos of various Quaker photographers to match the mood of the poems. Prepare to purchase! And enjoy!

Note: I am posting this blog from a hospital bed! Much to my surprise! (Do you see how devoted I am to keeping up on my blog?) Fortunately I wrote it yesterday.

House of Bread

 But out of you, Bethlehem Ephrathah … will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel.  (Micah 5:2)

I once spent an afternoon in Laja.
A small town on the Bolivian altiplano,
Laja is a village of bakers.
People all over the region
seek out pan de Laja,
a flatbread made of wheat,
water, oil and pinches of salt,
sugar and yeast. Its taste gives
me a sense of high lands,
open skies, and distant Andean peaks

My friend, Victoria,
comes from Laja. Her father
bakes bread for a living.
I spent an afternoon with Vicki’s
dad, kneading dough, forming small globes,
letting them rise, pancaking them,
then shoveling the bread
in the adobe oven
with a long wooden spatula.
I felt proud, at the end of the day,
of my accomplishments.

Laja gives life
to the surrounding communities.

Bethlehem, House of Bread, a small town
in the Judean foothills, is also known
for a product that blesses surrounding
communities in ever widening ripples.
Sought after by some, rejected by others.
The Bread of Life.

                       The name, Bethlehem, in Hebrew means "house of bread."

nancyjthomas.com

Christmas stories—cute, sacred and … terrifying

 Last night our retirement community choir put on its annual Christmas concert. I love old voices. Their beauty comes from talent plus years of experience plus a deep sense of spirituality. I felt the sacredness of the occasion. And of the story. I enjoyed the appropriateness of sharing the story in community. Again.

The images have been engrained in most of us since our own infancy, passed down through the generations in the voices of parents and Sunday school teachers, envisioned through sacred art (some of which seems strange to our modern eyes), and sang about in countless carols. The baby in the manger, shepherds astonished by choirs of angels splitting the night sky with their Halleluiahs and Hosannas, wise men and camels, a haloed virgin mother and a bewildered papa. Some of us imagine a pristine setting (no cow poop anywhere) and others try to envision a cave for animals as it might have really been, mess and all.

Christmas pageants help us image the story. Some pageants are spectacular, like the one in Southern California I had to buy a ticket for; angels actually flew around (attached by semi-invisible ropes), live camels loitered in the background, and baby Jesus cried real tears. But for most of us, our local congregations give proud parents the opportunity to see their small children enact the story, sometimes with doses of humor spicing the production. Even with this messy simplicity, we can sometimes glimpse the glory.

But we don’t really know what that first Christmas was like for any of the characters. We can only gather up the facts we have and imagine. Thank God for imagination.

One of the greatest resources we have for stimulating our imaginations (and our faith) is the biblical book of Revelation. And, believe it or not, the book of the Revelation contains the Christmas story. This is a version of the story that rarely gets told as part of our annual celebrations. It’s terrifying and hard to reconcile with the stories in the Gospels.

Add it to your Christmas reading this year. Revelations 12:1-10 (and following) is entitled in my Bible, “The Woman and the Dragon.” Sounds like something out of medieval mythology, but it’s part of the apocalyptic literature of the Bible; that means it conveys truth. It contains a mysterious pregnant heroine, a vicious snake-like dragon bent on mischief, a dramatic rescue, a newborn baby, and all of this followed by a war in heaven. And the story doesn’t end there.

This is jarring. I tried to imagine a Christmas pageant following this version of the story. Here’s the poem.

Christmas Pageant Re-imaged
The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born.  Revelation 12:1

Mary stumbles on stage,
balancing the universe on her head,
crying out in pain.
Her adversary enters stage-left,
hovers over her. He grins
from each of his seven faces.
No gentle Joseph in sight. No shepherds.
No silent night.

As the terrors of childbirth are compounded
by the threat of infanticide,
the audience boos.
In a surprise move, God kidnaps
the newborn, then disappears from the scene.
Mary crawls off stage,
seeking a place to hide and heal.
Enter a mob of angels
dressed in battle fatigues.
The stage erupts in chaos.
The special effects guys outdo themselves.
The play reaches a climax,
takes a dramatic turn.
The serpent, bloodied and defeated
but not yet dead, is hurled
into the audience.
Screams everywhere.

Pageant concluded.

Merry Christmas.

Now is that weird or what? It seems to me a wide-angle-lens perspective of the whole Gospel story, an allegory of the global significance of the coming of the Christ-child into the world. One clue is that immediately after the serpent-dragon is hurled to the earth, a voice from heaven proclaims, “Now have come the salvation and the power and the kingdom of our God, and the authority of his Messiah. For the accuser of our brothers and sisters, who accuses them before our God day and night, has been hurled down.” The song continues, announcing victory by the blood of the Lamb and by the testimony of believers, giving, in a capsule, the whole salvation story.

A lot to meditate on. A lot to imagine.

Maybe on Christmas morning this year, along with the version in the book of Luke, we’ll read Revelation 12 aloud.

And sing our own Hosannas.

 

[Some free-image paintings I took from the Internet:]

Giusto_de_Menabuoi

Wabi-sabi and growing older

 Some words are so much fun to say, it almost doesn’t matter what they mean. A word like wabi-sabi. It sounds like a hot sauce or something Dr. Seuss might have made up, a small beast with six short legs, a long neck, a perfectly round bald head, and a smiling face. A wabi-sabi.

Well, that’s not what it means. Furthermore, it absolutely does matter what a word means.

I learned the term wabi-sabi just last week from my friend Gary. Gary is a photographer and he has been experimenting with wabi-sabi photography. He explained that this means taking photos of imperfect things and thus showing the beauty in them. He’s good at it.

Fascinated and curious, I turned on my computer to learn what AI had to tell me about wabi-sabi. Here’s what I found: “Wabi-sabi is a Japanese philosophy centered on finding beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and incompleteness, viewing the natural cycle of growth and decay as inherently beautiful, contrasting with Western ideals of flawlessness. It’s an aesthetic appreciating simplicity, modesty, asymmetry, and the marks of age and wear….” It is expressed in many Japanese arts, such as tea ceremonies, pottery, and gardens. It accepts life’s transient nature.

I’ve been pondering this concept all week. I’m attracted to it because it seems so grace-filled. So merciful. My life is full of imperfections, yet I long for beauty. Maybe beauty lives closer to me than I think.

I have two small things I value highly because of the memories associated with them. (I'll call them Thing 1 and Thing 2, in honor of Dr. Seuss.) Thing 1 is a blue and white cup from Russia—not a tourist treasure, but from the kind of dishes Russians use in their homes. I’ve always been drawn to Russia, primarily because of her literature and music, and the brief two weeks I spent there only increased my admiration for the culture and the people. If one can love a thing, I love that Russian cup.

I also love an amethyst crystal I gave to Hal for his birthday, Thing 2. It’s a Bolivian gem, native to the land where we lived for many years. It’s perfect.

Or it was perfect. Both the cup and the crystal have suffered mishaps. The base of the cup is chipped. And the top of the crystal was damaged in a fall. It no longer comes to a perfect point. I’ve felt really bad that both these precious things have become flawed. I’ve even considered throwing them out.

I’m changing my mind. I’ll keep them around and try to let their imperfections make them more precious to me. Is that silly? Maybe. Maybe not.

This reminds me of a favorite poem by American poet Jarod Anderson entitled “Flawless.”

Flawless

Things that are perfect
are dead things.

Empty things.

A silence beyond change or challenge.
An endpoint.
A blank page.

You are a wonderfully messy thing.

An impossible thing made of salt
and rainwater.
Meat and electricity.

A dream with teeth.

You’re too good for perfection.

I’m thinking it would be good to apply the philosophy of wabi-sabi to the process of aging. Sometimes I’m almost obsessed by my imperfections in this time of life—the spots on my hands, wrinkles, the slight stoop of my shoulders, the flattening out of some parts of my anatomy and the bulging of other parts. Not to mention the crooked nose I’ve had since childhood. Very imperfect. It’s not pretty. My granddaughters are pretty; Grandma isn’t.

Not only the physical trials of growing older, but the mental, social, even familiar changes all seem to spell gradual decay and loss.

Could it be I’ve got it wrong? Have I unconsciously bought into the values of my Western culture? Do I need to change my brain patterns so I can see myself and others as God sees us? Could I look at these old hands with affection, remembering all the things God has done using them? Can I laugh affectionately when I forget names or when the right word doesn’t instantly come to mind?

Can I appreciate the beauty of the imperfections that come with aging, knowing that someday I’ll have a new body and a renewed brain? Can I live now with a wabi-sabi attitude?

Yes, I think I can; at least I can begin walking in that direction. And maybe you can too.

Remember, we’re too good for perfection.

Photo by Gary Fawver

Check out my new author web-site: nancyjthomas.com

Can I tell you a secret?

[The following reflection was first published in “The Evangelical Friend” in 1984, but the concepts are still relevant. It’s part of a book of collected stories and essays that will be published in 2026 under the title, “The Richest Kid on the Block: reflections from an ordinary life.”] 

In a conspiratorial tone of voice, my seven-year-old daughter asked, “Mommy, can I tell you the stupid part of a smart secret?” Intrigued, I nodded, and Kristin cupped her hands around my ear and whispered, “Timmy Smith likes me.”

There. It was out. The stupid part of a smart secret. Another shared bond between us.

Secrets are important. Children instinctively know this. I remember often saying as a child, “If I tell you this, will you promise not to tell anyone? Cross your heart?”

I belonged to a secret club in the fifth grade. We had secret names, a secret written code, and a hiding place for our buried treasure (a huge collection of popsicle sticks). We sent secret signals to one another across the classroom and engaged in a secret post-recess contest to see who could hold a mouthful of water the longest. Our club had no theme or purpose; its most crucial element was its secretness. It said, “We belong.”

Secrets have their negative side. They can be used to exclude those who don’t belong. Whenever Kristin invites a group of friends to the house, sometime in the course of the day, some little girl inevitably whines, “No fair telling secrets!” And she’s right. Secrets used to exclude other people are definitely no fair.

Knowing a secret grants a certain superiority. I like Robert Frost’s little poem:

We dance around in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

Have you ever been in a group of people who are pondering something that you know the answer to? You’ve pledged not to speak, so can only sit there and silently know. I may be perverse, but that’s my idea of fun, especially if the secret is a pleasant one.

I’m not a child anymore, but I still believe in secrets.

Just the other day I was thinking about a past experience, remembering how important it was to me. I suddenly realized that almost none of my current friends even knows about that experience. There are areas of my life—people I’ve loved, places I’ve been, adventures I’ve had—that are still my secrets. For some reason that knowledge gives me satisfaction. People don’t know all there is to know about me. I have a few surprises up my sleeve.

But having secrets is probably not as important as appropriately sharing secrets. Shared secrets create bonds between adults as well as between children, although we don’t use the same vocabulary. I belong to a small accountability group in my church. Our closeness is measured by the degree to which we openly reveal ourselves within the group. James 5:16 says, “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.” We try to do this in our meetings, not only confessing our sins and faults, but sharing our joys and dreams as well. The bond between us is growing.

I don’t believe in telling all my secrets to everyone I know. That would be inappropriate, and I would soon have no secrets left to tell. But as I make a new friend and we begin to grow in our friendship, being open and honest about ourselves is part of the process. And keeping confidences is one measure of loyalty in a friendship.

The depth of a relationship usually equals the degree of shared secrets. My husband knows me better than any other person. We’ve talked together, prayed, walked the same paths, wrestled with the same problems. He knows my ups and downs, my pettiness, my joy, my hurts, my dreams. And I know his. Just as with children, sharing secrets is a part of our being best friends.

This carries over into our relationship with God. Although he relates to all of us in community as the church, he also knows and loves us individually. My relationship to God and awakening into his love are unlike anyone else’s. He’s my closest friend and our friendship is intimate and secret.

David writes of the wonder of the intimacy of a relationship with God:

“O Lord, Thou hast searched me and known me.
Thou dost know when I sit and when I rise up;
Thou dost understand my thought from afar.
Thou dost scrutinize my path and my lying down,
And art intimately acquainted with all my ways.
Even before there is a word on my tongue,
Behold, O Lord, thou dost know it” (Psalm 139:1-4 NASB)

In Revelation God promises that to the person who overcomes, “I will give … a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it” (2:17). For all eternity we’ll have a name that will remain a secret we share only with the Father. However our other relationships in heaven will be (and I imagine they’ll be wonderful in the full sense of the word), each one of us will still have a unique relationship with God. We’ll share a secret no one else knows.

If you see me looking somewhat inward, smiling to myself, you’ll know it’s because—I’ve got a secret!

Even leopards give thanks

Yesterday in church we listened to the story of Jesus healing the ten lepers two times. Not that he healed the lepers twice. We heard the story twice, once in Sunday school, and then again in church.

That makes sense. It’s an appropriate story for Thanksgiving week. Ten lepers healed, but only one came back to say “Thank you.” Of course we were then admonished to be that one, not only on Thanksgiving Day, but everyday. To make gratitude a habit. Good advice, healthy for the body as well as the soul.

That story has special meaning to me. Years ago, in a Sunday school, the leader was teaching on the miracles of Jesus. For such an uplifting subject, the class was remarkably boring. The teacher, a good friend, was a college professor in lecture mode, droning on and on. At one point he was reading off a list of all the miracles recorded in the Gospels. I had drifted off when, on the borders of consciousness, I heard him mention the healing of the ten leopards.

That caught my attention. Instantly my imagination went into full gear and I saw an African savannah with leopards and other wild beasts. Jesus was walking among them, having mercy on their conditions.

Then class was over and we filed into the sanctuary for the worship service. I wrote the following poem in the margins of the church bulletin:

The Cleansing

And it came about that Jesus, King, was passing
through the grass lands of Burundi and as he
entered a village ten leopards approached,

slinking between the huts, pad-padding down
the paths on great pudding feet,
ten shadow beasts brought low by mange and

malice came near and said to the King of Cats, 
O Master, Jesus, have mercy on us,
we know if you will you can make us clean,

heal our hide, sharpen our claws, restore our
terror names, and Jesus, Beast, said,
I will, be clean, and straightway the ten

leopards were healed and with leaps and holy
yowls they departed, but one, when he saw
he was healed, returned and crouching purred

his praise, a gravelly grace song, and Jesus,
Cat, twitched his tail
while all the skies of Africa sang.

While the poem was playful, it also turned out to be true. Christ is called the Lion of Judah in the Old Testament and in the book of Revelation. My slip-of-the-ear and the consequent vision presented me with a different perspective on the Gospel. A picture of a cosmic healing Christ who we’ll never be able to completely understand. And a new view of gratitude. I saw a bigger picture of grace and goodness abroad in the world. Writing poems sometimes does that to me.

As we focus on thanksgiving this week, let’s ask for a bigger vision of God and of the grace and goodness of God in our lives, no matter what is going on personally and in the world at large. Let’s be thankful.

If a leopard—or a leper—can express gratitude, so can I.

The dark part of the forest

 I usually know ahead of time what I’m going to blog about, but I began this day with a blank page and a blank mind. All of it reflecting a blank emotional state. Not so black as despair, but neither with a bright degree of hope. I’m comforted in knowing that the Psalms reflect lament almost as much as they do praise.

The thing is—I’m sick of being sick. And I’m not even gravely ill. But several chronic conditions continue to deplete my energy, making any kind of activity cumbersome. I figure I have around two hours a day to express my creativity, then I resort to books, movies, and naps. To some people that might sound like the good life. But not to me.

I’m in process of giving up a leadership role that has brought me delight, as well as an avenue of service. My body is telling me I need to let it pass to someone else, and I’ve chosen to listen, but not without a sense of grief. And I wonder what I’m to let go of next.

My purpose for writing on this blogsite is to explore ways to face the challenges of aging with courage and humor. I include myself in this purpose which is why I use the word explore. My way of working through issues and challenges is through writing. Today my courage is low and I’m not finding anything to laugh about. But I sense that I need to write from the valley as well as from the mountain top.

About 30 years ago, when I was a mere 51 years old, I wrote a poem about my fears of growing older. (At the time, I didn’t realize how young I still was!) I find it still relevant in certain seasons. I borrow from the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale and the phrase “coming unglued.”

Coming of Age

“It's all right,” he assured me
as his ear slid
slowly
down the side
of his face.
His right index finger dropped
off
next.
He had always
known this would happen
someday.
His hairline had begun
to recede
years before.
We walked out of
the room
single
file.
I stumbled on
his left
foot.
He hobbled ahead,
scattering appendages
like
bread
crumbs.
About twilight
we entered the forest.

Grim, no? And a bit strange (like me).

Psalm 31 combines both lament and praise, going back and forth, showing the cyclic nature of our inward life. Mine at least. In lament, David expresses his anguish honestly.

Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow,
my soul and body with grief.
My life is consumed by anguish
and my years by groaning;
my strength fails because of my affliction,
and my bones grow weak.  (Psalm 31:9-10)

I detect themes of old age, chronic illness, and despair. But David knows where to take it. He cries out to the Lord in complete honestly. Later in the same psalm he writes, you heard my cry for mercy, and he ends the psalm with words to us: Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord.

I’ll do that today. I’ll take heart, even as I’m in the middle of the forest of age, going deeper every day. I may meet up with a wicked witch and an enticing gingerbread house. But probably not. I expect I’ll find light for the path, a light that grows brighter and brighter until the day when all is light, beauty, glory, and grace. And I may even have fun on the way.

I’m feeling better already.