The conference went well. A spiritual and  intellectual feast resulted from a fortunate confluence: writers and poets on faith like Luci Shaw and Marilynne Robinson, best-selling books from around the globe, and sensitive readers.

Yet I found myself exhausted physically and spiritually at the end of the second day. Tired. A bit lonely as evening came on. Discouraged with my own writing, which seemed so much drivel. Too trite. Too driven by clichés. I found myself in a Dantean wood of sorts.

In this mood I wandered into the college vesper services.

I listened to “The Lamb” and “The Tyger” by William Blake, sung by the college choir. Readers presented more poetry and a reading from Job. More songs. I soared. Perhaps my words might one day soar as well.

As I listened to poetry ancient and modern, I knew why the church, despite human failing, endures still, lighting the way for uncountable billions.

No, I know my words will never quite reach what I desire for them, but I know it is not hopeless. Tomorrow I will try that new beginning on the novel that now teases me.

Hope. That’s the name of it, I think.