The sun gleams right through the hull of the ship, that small window that my grandmother had insisted on serving as the see-through beacon from side to side of the small sailboat's carcass. The ship's elegant skeleton gleams in the sunset. Where will she carry us next, I wonder, as her old frame rocks on the incoming wake. This small ship, home to my heart, home to my soul, has for so long physically carried me from shore to shore. Too often those journeys have taken place during seasons of distinct doubt. Buffeted over the waves in this old family sailboat, so too has my sense of the sacred been buffeted across the waves only to return to me as I sailed nearer to shores edge.