“He’d grown accustomed to the yawning emptiness in his own life. Perhaps it always chafed like imagined sackcloth, but like sackcloth in the scriptures, he’d decided at some point in the last months that it ought to be a reminder to fall to his knees. Perhaps the cup given him wasn’t happiness, but rather holiness. Perhaps he could do as a man of prayer all that he’d failed to do as a man of action.”
