Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, with whom there is no change or shifting shadow.
An old hymn drifting out of a shop doorway can carry you, for a moment, back to a room you haven't stood in for years. Someone's elbow is beside yours, and the words are still somewhere in your mouth. The feeling that follows can be hard to name, with fondness in it and then a quick tightening, as if the fondness weren't allowed.