It’s hardly the second month of the year, still in the chill of winter, when I’m watering my citrus fruit tree by the front window, wondering yet again, why the poor thing keeps losing fruit. Producing doesn’t come from how much you work — but how deeply you abide in the vine. Behind me, open on that old, burned blacksmith table that I use as a desk, lies all the various editions of The Book, open to the book of John, where I’m working and studying and writing, for school, for...
