As the fog rolled in this week it rolled up inside me. Down from the mountains, over the ocean. Curling its gray haze in front of my eyeballs and through my brain. I am probably fighting that virus that’s going around. Probably. I am probably fighting a battle— not against flesh and blood. Fighting, fighting, fighting. It’s making me tired. And impatient. And ungracious. And foggy.
His grace is sufficient for me. His power is made perfect in weakness. When I am weak, I am strong.