A ziploc bag of spaghetti sauce sags on the counter, slowly defrosting until I pour it out onto noodles for dinner. I've been reading Hard Times by Charles Dickens, drinking herbal tea, eating bergamot cookies. They were lightly dusted in sugar and left a faint trace on my fingertips.
This morning I read Joseph's revelation of his true identity to his brothers.
I was struck by Joseph's belief that his personal suffering was necessary in God's greater plan for his family, for others. He'd trusted God in pit, in prison and in power, and was seeing fruit from the years of lonely sorrow and hard, hard work. It astounds me.
Faith that every little thing matters, and is seen.
