Wrapped In Rain

by Charles Martin

You can’t rake the rain, box up the sunshine, or plow the clouds, but you can love.

You are going to wrestle with it until the day you die, whether you like it or not. The only choice is whether or not you pass them to your son. Stopping it is a choice you make.’

“Where does a man find healing amid so many broken places? How does he find love in the ruins and vine-wrapped shattered pieces of his own soul?”

“The sins of the father stop here . . . and my love begins.”

A warm rain, with big, heavy drops, typical of March. Maybe God was crying on Alabama. But not all tears speak sorrow. Some scream joy.