Snowing in Ipswich. Coming out of the medieval front door at Ascension, the snow was a welcome sight, like the grace of God flowing down and gently lighting on my shoulders, my head, my face. Ascending the narrow way between the steep sides between library and hall, I felt a choir singing through the whole, white, swirling purity of the scene. My soul rose against its masculine strength, pealing:
Come, Thou almighty King,
Help us Thy Name to sing,
Help us to praise!
Father all glorious, over all victorious,
Come and reign over us, Ancient of Days!
Back at the office, Lynn-nore called. I received a letter from Hendrickson. It was typed, but personal, from Shirley. She was congratulatory at my enthusiasm and talents, but could not offer me the position. I will do the manly thing, of course. I will write, thanking her for her trouble and offering myself for any future service – there is no door that, even shut, cannot be knocked upon.
Be still my soul and wait,.. wait,.. wait upon the Lord.
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