Once you’ve heard a child cry out to Heaven for help, and go unanswered, nothing’s ever the same again. Nothing. Even God changes. But there is a healing hand at work that cannot be deflected from its purpose. I just can’t make sense of it, other than to cry. Those tears are part of what it is to be a monk. Out there, in the world, it can be very cold. It seems to be about luck, good and bad, and the distribution is...
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