True Accounts Of Visions, Angels, And Healing Miracles
I begin my prayer time some mornings with the following meditation. I go back to a sacred spot from childhood, on the bank of the creek across the road from the barn on the farm in Richland County, where I grew up. I pass an old abandoned boat which sits in the weeds along the way. The creek is different every day. Sometimes the water is low, the ripples below the deep hole barely audible as they trickle over the rocks. Other days, after a storm, the banks are full and I watch in awe as the water rushes around the bend carrying debris from burst beaver dams and farmers' fences.
