Br. Jeremiah Tobin
A noise echoes. It comes from the light, from the house, drowning out the sounds of darkness. Trumpets and the sound of the horn? Or is it the sound of those waters stirred up? I’ve left the plow, left my work belt, my hammer, my tools of meager existence—left my unmoving toil. And I took a step.

This is part of a series entitled, “The Reason for Our Hope.” Read the series introduction here. To see other posts in the series, click here.
The dirt was caked on my hands, under the fingernails, stinging the blisters. In the evening dark, the black of the earth and the red of my own blood were indistinguishable. Taking a few deep breaths, I wiped my forehead, the dirt and the sweat of my brow mixing into a kind of mud. But not like when he spit on the clay—or so I heard. Still, I could not see the color of my hands, or any color. Color. I remembered the golden sunset’s beam on his face as we took a walk through this field, this very field, after dinner, many years ago—before I was sick. Only the glow from the house is light now. It is night. It is dark.

Even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you. Another day, another eve, and the work of the field is taken away. How cruel night is, the darkness, driving man from the field. Driving him from his daily wage. From his worth. Driving me from the land I’ve always kept, on these three small acres outside the city, downhill from our home. To keep me from what I earn. I don’t feel the rest that comes with night. I’ve felt it less and less in recent years.  » Read More
https://theimaginativeconservative.org/2025/04/light-hope-jeremiah-tobin.html