Silas was a man of the coast, his skin etched with the deep, map-like wrinkles of seventy winters spent under the sun and salt spray. For eighty-four days, he had returned to the docks with empty nets, a streak of bad luck that had the younger fishermen whispering behind his back. But Silas’s eyes remained the color of the sea—cheerful and undefeated.
Let us be honest: not every is a kindly Gandalf. Many become bitter. Why?
Silas was a man of the coast, his skin etched with the deep, map-like wrinkles of seventy winters spent under the sun and salt spray. For eighty-four days, he had returned to the docks with empty nets, a streak of bad luck that had the younger fishermen whispering behind his back. But Silas’s eyes remained the color of the sea—cheerful and undefeated.
Let us be honest: not every is a kindly Gandalf. Many become bitter. Why?