Made whilst I was on Hydrocodone. I am not responsible for what I may have said.
The plumber has been here and gone, since he couldn’t get the shut-off valve to shut off. Now we have to dig in the yard.
(25 Lawn continues to nickel and dime me.)
Samson is snoring on one side of my lap.
I shall listen to a portion of Messiah later today, and bake a cake. And then comes the glorious Easter Vigil, and the mighty promises of the Exsultet.
The ankle is weary today . . . weary of the walking boot and of stairs and of an attached human who has a hard time sitting still.
Stillness is what today needs, though.
This is Holy Saturday.The tree is felled, but its stump remains, Waiting, in the soil. And we in our waiting sing muted refrains, The cries of parched soil longing for rain And waiting in our toil… The tree is felled, but its stump remains, Waiting for the dawn. And we in our Sabbath sing muted refrains, Longing faintly for our king who reigns Through every crying morn… ~Matthew Pullar