Author: Nan Jones

The morning dew lay heavy upon the grass, glistening drops of refreshment clinging to each blade. In each tiny globe of moisture, the light of a new day reflected like glitter scattered across the field. I thought of how the dew was formed — the warm air rising from the earth clashing with the cooler air of descending darkness, a foretelling of the clashing seasons of summer into fall, a whisper of the challenges my tenets of faith have experienced.

I thought of the conflict of one season morphing into another — the warmth of summer wrestling with the chill of fall much like the dark of night softens to morning light …