On that day, Yahweh made a covenant with Abram.
Pilgrims travel, not because they believe God lies ahead somewhere, but because they
know God is beneath their feet. Or at least they're suspicious of it. A pilgrim once told me,
before she left the trees of Mamre, "Yahweh is in the flesh beneath your chest, which you daily
anoint with tears." I gently remind myself it isn't true. I've become adept at merely succumbing
to the place of pain.

I am still barren. It has been ten years. Read more of this post