I so often wish that I were strong where I am weak. I am something of a coward; I have not overmastered that human thrill to run from danger and confrontation. I am something of a fool; as much as I would have others believe me wise, I frequently act to the contrary. How I would to be charming or clever, honorable like so many revered men of history or strong--a refuge for those who need shelter. Yet, I am none of these noble things. These things I worship.

Yet, amongst all my failures, I long for peace. As the blackened frame of my idolatry smolders in my midst, I am forced to turn my swollen eyes toward a focus beyond those blinding walls now burnt. I have stood here in this rubble before today--different ashes, different idols; the lesson is the same: The furnace of God burns too hot for shelters of grass.