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My Cross


During the early afternoon, the sun shines brightly through the stained glass window. Amidst the dancing colors in the church pew, holding my small ivory cross, I sit alone and pray. I pray for guidance and for strength.

We all have our crosses to bear. Some we chose for ourselves, others are given to us. My cross is small – its burden, heavy.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of footsteps coming near. A priest walks by, points to the shrouded figure in the Easter display and exclaims, “Isn’t it wonderful! He has risen! He is here!” I want to respond but I remain silent as he hurriedly exits through the side door. …


I am here.


Excerpt from Clay Diary, April 2000

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