Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

Again. And again. And again. And again.

Lord Jesus Buddha, you taught us that all that passes through our eyes is illusion, that the Kingdom of Haven is beyond our understanding, that even as we strive toward Your Promise our feet fall on insubstance. I've tried all my life, all my disparate lives, to keep moving toward Haven; and in my every journey I have travelled halting and untrue.

Forgive me. For I will sin again.

Today I repaired the sorters at Shaft N. I worked the broken shaft out of the pillow blocks with my bare hands, and Seth and Li just stood back and shook their heads! It was an aikido parlor trick, move the less massy piece first, knock the bearing off the shaft and the shaft's free--but it was impressive nonetheless, and I had a moment there when I had the shaft by main strength, and, well, I was lucky.

These hands crushed cartilege, once. I was in a hurry.

We all work here. We do the good work. We simplify our lives to the function of hand and head, and our hearts and souls are supposed to grow in Your presence. We are not to be movers and shakers, we turn our backs on Action and Decision and Conviction, we become Your lambs.

Look at these folk, Lord: these are no lambs.

Were there mountain sheep, Lord, where you walked? I saw holos of mountain sheep from Earth-That-Was, tough, mean things utterly at home on great rocks that seemed to push all the way through the atmosphere; not lambs, not docile, fluffy clouds, walking meat. Killers, when pushed. Ill-tempered and capable, self-sufficient, troublesome, independent.

These are your creatures, Lord. and they will not be domesticated.

I spilled ink, just now as I refilled my pen, and what didn't wipe off my skin has made a webwork in the cracks of the callus on my hands. Like a road map. We used to soak our hands in ice buckets, and plunge them into crushed rock; well, the callus is still there, and as decorative.

I thought I'd done with killing