She walked. Every day, and sometimes twice, she would saunter through the woods and across the fields, drinking in the presence of nature she felt all around her. She held a make-shift bouquet of wildflowers in her hand, and swayed them at the beckoning of the wind. These moments, alone with God, sustained her throughout the endless trials of her days. She felt lonely, but knew she was never really alone. She felt sad, but knew there lived inside of her an everlasting supply of joy. If she could only reach it. How does she reach it?
What stands in the way of her grabbing onto the happiness she knows would follow if only she’d trust? It is many things. It is free will, fear, memories, comfort in the constancy, loming rejection, and confusion. It is uncertainty and a self-consciousness that’s she’s not sure originated with her.
Does she really…