It continues to surprise, this land of grief. Its topography is so hard to read - like the shifting sands of the desert. To climb a tiny hill can feel like scaling a mountain - leaving the lungs gasping for air at the top. Once scaled - the view behind may be spectacular - but the view ahead is hidden, at least for now. Some of the valleys which look like no more than a ditch prove to have sides so steep that they all but blot out the light.
As ever with foreign travel, the currency is unfamiliar too. Money has little value. It can pay the bills and provide some distraction, but it has no real worth. After all, it could not pay any fee to prevent crossing the border into here. In this land the currency is kindness. It comes in words and actions, cards and letters, and even smiles.
I started this week by re-reading all the cards and letters which I have received. They came from every direction, in every kind of handwriting and from every age. Some were poetic, some fulsome, some brief - but all have made me richer here.
I thank God for every single one of them. Like money sent home from abroad - they have helped to sustain life in this foreign land and I am humbly grateful.
