It was one of those lazy hazy Sunday where you stayed in bed the whole day. I took the opportunity to read a 'Note from Max Lucado' on Strength.
An example of faith was found on the walls of a concentration camp. On it a prisoner had carved the words:
I believe in the sun, even though it doesn't shine,
I believe in love, even when it isn't shown,
I believe in God, even when he doesn't speak.
I try to imagine the person who etched those words. I try to envision his skeletal hand gripping the broken glass or stone that cut into the wall. I try to imagine his eyes squinting through the darkness as he carved each letter.
What hand could have seen good in such horror?
There is only one answer: Eyes that chose to see the unseen.
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