It's all good, they say.

It's all good.

Is it, Lord?

Why, just yesterday, didn't I take shovel to root in the raised beds. Didn't I point the sharp side down, delve into soft earth, strike metal against growth, loosen, then, with a steady right hand, yank?

And didn't I feel a pinch somewhere deep in my flesh as I turned to the left and threw that wayward raspberry bush onto the compost. That stray bit of root, arching stem, thorns, leaves green and firm, berries hanging hopeful and urging towards ripeness. Didn't I?

This day, this morning when the dew hangs bright on the hemlocks, teach me the difference between Genesis It is good and simply It's all good. Strengthen my right hand.

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