The barn swallows and dragonflies have been hunting each afternoon, gracefully swooping through the skies near our farm. They dart around, clearing the air of insects and making a show of their skills. I do not remember a year where they were so prominent, and each day I delight in their hunt.
While we wait for better news for Behn, I work new long hours several nights a week. Behn and I take turns reminding one another to be content and hard-working while the other, exhausted, despairs in bitterness. One of us upholds the other and then we seem to swap, collapsing in the rowe with anxiety. It feels spiritually immature to be so angry at times, but we are weak sinners still. Some days we rely on Christ and others we wear our flesh and the battle rages on.
I have been reading a book about the Shiant Islands in the Scottish Hebrides. Traveling via literature to a place of death and life and birds and grass and ghosts and rocks and waves and holiness has been an interesting distraction in a very local summer.
I am scattered today, and will finish with a commonplace:
"There cannot be a more humble soul than a believer; it is no pride for a drowning man to catch hold of a rock." -Samuel Rutherford, 1637
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