Security Is Mostly A Superstition. It Does

When It Seems That Our Sorrow Is Too Great To Be Borne, Let Us Think Of The Great Family Of The Heavy-hearted Into Which Our Grief Has Given Us Entrance. And Inevitably, We Will Feel About Us Their Arms, Their Sympathy And Their Understanding.

I Believe There Are Angels Among Us, Sent Down To Us From Somewhere Up Above. They Come To You And Me In Our Darkest Hours, To Show Us How To Live, To Teach Us How To Give, To Guide Us With A Light Of Love.

Long Before I Learned To Do A Sum In Arithmetic Or Describe The Shape Of The Earth, Miss Sullivan Had Taught Me To Find Beauty In The Fragrant Woods, In Every Blade Of Grass, And In The Curves And Dimples Of My Baby Sister's Hand.

Where Once Stood The Steadfast Pines, Great, Beautiful, Sweet, My Hand Touched Raw, Moist Stumps. All About Lay Broken Branches, Like The Antlers Of Stricken Deer. The Fragrant, Piled-up Sawdust Swirled And Tumbled About Me. An Unreasoning Resentment Flashed Through Me At The Ruthless Destruction Of The Beauty That I Love.

The Mystery Of Language Was Revealed To Me. I Knew Then That 'w-a-t-e-r' Meant The Wonderful Cool Something That Was Flowing Over My Hand. That Living Word Awakened My Soul, Gave It Light, Joy, Set It Free.