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the rough broool of his trousers, but somehow they didn't Quite the opposite, in fact As he studied the dogeared, worn pages, he felt a thin strand of hope wending through his thoughts, leaving in its wake the sparkling promise of maybe

He squeezed his eyes shut For years he'd been praying for help and guidance, but never once in all those tiless shells, devoid of es of a iven up

Noondered if it took e the Als, deotten prayers Maybe belief, honest belief, made the difference

He brought his work-callused hands together, threading his fingers tightly Resting his clasped hands on the open Bible, he bowed his head

But the prayer wouldn't cos he wanted, so nitude of it all sed his feeble sense of hope and overwhelhtened him

His breathing quickened Despair sucked hihts into the blackness that so often clouded his ht to ask for forgiveness, no right to say, "I need"

At first he hardly felt a thing, but gradually he becaers Then the pressure, gentle and yet firm

He eased his eyes open and saw his wife's pale hand c

urled tightly around his own, touching hilance, she was telling him that she was there Beside him

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A calh his body, cocooning hian to ebb away and was replaced by a quiet, fired It was real, and he was ready to believe in her

There's always a beginning, he thought suddenly Always

He closed his eyes again, and this ti morass of fear and desperation and despair There was only the soul-deep, heartfelt desire of a ain in God, and in his wife

Jack had no idea how long he sat there, head bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped in prayer, seeking help from God Time dwindled and became unimportant

It seemed like hours; it seemed like minutes