I’m reading a novel that features excerpts from Rudyard Kipling’s poem The Sons Of Martha. I don’t think I’m familiar with it. The poem anyway. I feel great empathy with the sons of Martha here described. I aspire to remember I’m a son of Mary. And to remember that contra to Kipling’s contention the burden …

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I know a few folk who are having some bad days. Time will tell if they’re the worst days of their lives. I would hope they’d be spared too many that are worse. This poem from Connor Gwin resonates with their experience. Sit down (or fall down). Anywhere will do. Wherever you are, stop. Breathe. …

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