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Me with my journal, he with a drink and his thoughts. Bless a man who knows how to keep his own counsel when you can’t bear to speak.
Clearly unable to sleep, I sat at my window with a sermon Hawkes gave months ago on my mind, where he mentioned Aaron and Hur holding up the arms of Moses. They might not be of the Old Testament variety—Pierce, Islington, and Hawkes—but whatever strange confluence of events led to them holding me up was the gentlest hand of fate I’ve ever encountered. It might even be Divine.
