Quicksand
“Thanks, Sary,” she said, rising in retreat from the coffee, “you‘ve done me a world of good. I‘m really going to try to be more patient.”
So, though with growing yearning she longed for the great ordinary things of life, hunger, sleep, freedom from pain, she resigned herself to the doing without them. The possibility of alleviating her burdens by a greater faith became lodged in her mind. She gave herself up to it. It did help. And the beauty of leaning on the wisdom of God, of trusting, gave to her a queer sort of satisfaction. Faith was really quite easy. One had only to yield. To ask no questions. The more weary, the more weak, she became, the easier it was. Her religion was to her a kind of protective coloring, shielding her from the cruel light of an unbearable reality.
This utter yielding in faith to what had been sent her found her favor, too, in the eyes of her neighbors. Her husband‘s flock began to
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