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For the tender mercies.

For the grit and gristle.

For the nights we lay awake. The plain blue sky. Cold, clean water in a tin cup and the taste of iron and moss. For tragedy averted, and for tragedy. For our thick-headedness. For the glimpses of holy things and the small bell that rings in the center of our souls and the way light falls and rain. For the sound of surf on a desolate shore. For family and for loneliness and skinned knees and the way you break us and break us and break us without ceasing.

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