Nov 2, 2021
4 min read
Saved By Art
Kasson was alone when he answered my call. It was just me and him. I knew he was in the dark, hearing nothing but my voice. He was silent while I read the story. But it wasn’t a distracted silence. It was a focused silence. A heavy silence. An intimate silence. A silence of communion. Kasson was hearing my voice. He was hearing his story in my voice. But not just that. He was hearing his voice, in my voice. And the gravity of that responsibility had never been…
