John Donne Good Friday 1613 Riding Westward

LET man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,
Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is ;
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey ;
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,
This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget.
But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.
Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die ;
What a death were it then to see God die ?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes ?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us ? or that blood, which is
The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn ?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us ?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them ; and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my deformity ;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.

A growing morning.

It’s a mixed blessing to have the diocesan retreat house actually in your own parish. When I was there last, on my ordination retreat, I was terrified that if I stepped outside the grounds I might run straight into a member of St M’s congregation, just when I was trying to concentrate on me and God, rather than indulging my huge talent for worrying about other people…And it can be sad not to go properly "away" when there are chapter "away days". I can almost see this house from Glenfall's garden.
However, there’s not a lot I can do about it, and sometimes it feels rather a privilege.
This was the certainly the case when I was phoned to ask if I’d be willing to lead one of their Lenten Eucharists…I was happy to accept and perfectly calm about the whole thing until last night, when the phone rang again, with the news that WonderfulBishop was likely to be part of a very small congregation.

At this point all my insecurities kicked in with full force. I realised that I’d only once celebrated the Eucharist outside St M’s (and though I don’t love every aspect of the way we do it here, it is at least familiar), that it was less than a year since WB (who is a seriously good liturgist) had taken the time and trouble to give us a morning’s training on how to celebrate,and (for no good reason) that I was almost certainly doing everything All Wrong. What’s more, I’m so young in ministry, I was struggling with the concept of speaking words of absolution and blessing to my seniors like this….My theology can deal with it just fine, - but, emotionally it felt a tad presumptuous.
I wandered around the house bleating about my general inadequacy till DarlingDaughter said, with just a touch of acerbity,
“It’s the Eucharist, Mummy. It’s what you DO. And you always come home purring…”

Fast forward to this morning. Overnight rain cleared to blue skies, birds and daffodils seemed in competition to proclaim it indisputably spring and I realised I’d actually slept rather well, despite everything.
And of course, it was fine.
More than fine, actually.
I’d gone straight from that chapel to the Cathedral last July and not been to a Eucharist there since, so it felt very much a continuum…AND what’s more, today the church remembers John Donne, whose Hymne to God the Father was part of a very important moment of encounter (blogged here), which I hang onto at difficult times.
So many blessed moments came together and there at the heart of them all was the Eucharist.
So, not a mixed blessing after all.

Reflections on an Annual Parochial Church Meeting

For God so loved the world............

that he didn't send a committee!

This week's view

comes from the other side of town, but was just as therapeutic.
I'd been intending to present an aerial view of the racecourse, to whet the appetite of Greenbelt friends (or strike terror into the heart, if you're one of the amazing people who puts the whole Festival together)...but the cloud formation was so wonderful that I got sidetracked.
ENFP again! Sorry :-)

Dog day

I’ve been wondering whether poor Dillon
the evil Jack Russell gets an unfairly bad
press on this site…so just to redress the balance here is photgraphic evidence that even ADHD dogs relax sometimes.
This bout of inertia was achieved after a splendidly blusterywild and woolly walk on Cleeve Common, where both dogs chased endless rabbits with no success whatsoever, because, after all, that’s what terriers do.

They also chased magpies and skylarks, since they are obstinate in their refusal to believe that running faster will not one day finally give them wings.
To my relief, they stopped short of chasing golfers, mainly because they failed to notice the presence of balls. D in particular is an obsessive-compulsive where balls of any kind are concerned, but we managed to follow a route that avoided most of the holes, and I resorted to the lead when it all looked too tempting.. Clearly this means that both Dillon and Mufti now join the ranks of those who see the game of golf as "a good walk spoiled". They were also prevented, by a very determined fence, from investigating some extremely charming young cattle, who were equally interested in getting to know us. I've no idea of their breed, but they were clearly the bovine equivalent of saddle-back pigs, and boasted delightfully long and fluffy coats, more at home in the toyshop than on the hillside.
I enjoyed myself too, though having grown-up by the sea I still tend to feel that a howling gale is rather wasted anywhere else. Cleeve feels so like the South Downs in some ways, but with this crucial omission. Wish there were ever time to get as far as the sea on days off, - but the need to collect boys from school when I can gives a rather short day. Not to worry. It was still lovely, though of course, being me, I would have welcomed more conversation than the dogs were offering!

On being known

Last week I had an interview with my Bishop.
A few years ago, even writing that sentence would have reduced me to a gibbering wreck! Bishops, after all, are powerful people with huge influence over the fate of very junior curates who would rather like to remain in the diocese. Bishops have by definition got their act together theologically (at least enough to get by in most situations!). Bishops meet and mingle with the Great and the Good on a daily basis,- heavens, if Bishops aren’t the Great and the Good themselves, then I’m not sure who is!
And though I’m madly extrovert in terms of being inspired, excited and sustained above all by the people I encounter, I’m not actually particularly confident in many social situations,so I would have expected the prospect of an episcopal interview to strike terror.
Not a bit of it.
In fact, I was vaguely perplexed that those who knew where I was heading last Thursday afternoon wished me good luck before I went, and my uncharacteristic lack of fear was proved to be entirely reasonable. I didn't find myself the subject of an episcopal grilling because WonderfulBishop, who ordained me both as deacon and priest and honestly does represent for me, my “Father in God”, knows me very well. Somehow he has achieved this from a standing start, since he only appeared in this diocese a month before my diaconal ordination. I remember leaving my first encounter with him (on which occasion I’d arrived well and truly petrified…-after all, there seemed the distinct possibility that I might be “found out” and he would refuse point blank to ordain me!) feeling that in the space of an hour I’d been enabled to emerge from the protective social/professional mask and be myself, Kathryn. It felt, and still feels, perfectly safe.
Of course, when we spoke last week I didn’t burden him with graphic descriptions of life in the raw at the Curate’s house…he’s quite bright enough to imagine that for himself since he has teenagers of his own…but beyond that, there were no no-go areas. It was a genuinely positive encounter, which left me feeling absolutely OK with my place in the grand scheme of things.

Since then I’ve been reflecting on the wonder of being known as I am, and nonetheless tolerated, even loved. As an ENFP, I tend to share far more of myself than is probably either wise or desirable,- this blog is just another example! - and I’m always thrilled, delighted, and a little overwhelmed at the sheer gift of friends,- people who choose to spend time with me, for no good reason except, apparently, that they want to. Even though they know me.
I’m hugely blessed to know so many wonderful people…Just wanted to say that I do appreciate you. Truly. AND the Bishop!

With love on Mothering Sunday...

Not long home from our Mothering Sunday service, and I have had such a lovely morning….
After a rather low-key event last year we'd decided to go out on a limb and risk drastic trunkating of our regular liturgy, and various family-friendly tweaks (which ought to be the norm each week, but hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day!). I was then left in a state of frantic anxiety in case no families actually appeared, and the regular congregation felt they’d been diddled out of their normal diet for no good reason.
This morning, the normal vestry nerves were intensified…
Would all the bits hold together? What if everyone voted with their feet and stayed at home? (specially given the unkind twist of the clocks going forward last night)...Had I done enough to include those for whom the day is peculiarly painful?
But it was WONDERFUL
The 1000+ invitations we’d delivered to our baptism families, schools, Brownies, Beavers, Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all had clearly had some impact, as there were a good range of families, familiar and unknown, among the congregation as we processed in. The cuts in the liturgy left no gaping voids. The two mothers we interviewed as the prologue to the talk rose to the occasion like troupers and the thoughts that followed seemed to go down well too. Using Hosea 11, I talked about the huge gap between the tv image of mothering and the grisly reality of domestic life at the Curate’s house…I talked about the ways in which God mothers us through other people, and our responsibility to pass on the love we receive, and above all about the reality of unconditional love available all the time. EVERYONE received flowers and simnel cake, and a fair few chose to light candles for missing mothers or children at the station I’d made by the statue of Our Lady.
It was all lovely, honestly. A fair few tears at Communion, but that felt good too…
And after the service, my totally mad and rather delightful children went the length and breadth of Charlton Kings giving stray flowers to all and sundry, sticking them on car windscreens or entwining them through gates. Goodness knows what people will make of that, but perhaps it will raise a smile.
Meanwhile,I'm off to eat chocolate...there seems to be rather alot of it about the place, mostly with my name on it. Have a lovely afternoon, everyone, and feel loved and celebrated.

The Good in Parts offspring were here....can you spot the daffodil?

The Annunciation

Good morning!
You're beautiful with God's beauty,
Beautiful inside and out!
God be with you.

Luke 1:27/28 The Message

Heart to Heart

Is the title of a rather wonderful multi sensory prayer activity, devised by Chris and Sheila Chesterton…
Back in the autumn, I attended a training morning in which they outlined it, together with other resources they'd developed, and it seemed to me that this sort of approach might be very helpful in getting beneath the guard of some at St M’s, who tend to fence God round with liturgy and ritual so that it’s clear he is very dangerous indeed.
I spoke to Chris, who agreed that though it had been envisaged for an all-age family day, it could be adapted for an evening slot during our Lent course on prayer…and we arranged to talk after Christmas.
Only, just before Christmas Chris, our diocesan Children’s Officer, died very suddenly.
His many friends in the diocese and beyond all mourned, and wondered how we could support Sheila. Once the first shock was absorbed, I assumed that this would mean a re-jigging of our Lent programme…only to find that Sheila, being an amazing lady in all sorts of ways, had other ideas.
So, on Wednesday she came to St M’s to lead an evening, based on the material they had developed together…the first time she’d done so since Chris’s death. And it was splendid.
Heart to Heart is an acrostic based on the premise that prayer is a 2 way conversation…We Honour God, Enquire what his wants of us, Apologise (I seem to be doing that rather a lot at the moment) Request his help and Trust and Thank him….
In return, he has High Hopes of us, Encourages and Accepts us, Reminds us of his rules and Transforms us.
That possibly sounds either contrived, cheesey or both…but the reality really works. Particular highlights were joining our rather staid, and definitely post middle aged course attenders, as we stood in a circle in age order (lots of giggling as we swapped and swapped again, till we were all sorted) and passed a crown from head to head, reminding us of the treasure in store….And the joyful experience of giving each other stickers to encourage….a wonderful opportunity to find something to affirm in everyone there. By the time that activity was over, everyone was proudly sporting several awards of the type generally found in primary school exercise books…I transferred mine to my computer monitor today and am delighted to report that at least someone thinks I am not just “very good” but "excellent" too…and that I have "done well"….
Again, it sounds potentially naff but was a hugely positive experience for everyone.
To support this input, Sheila created a series of prayer stations in church, which we left up and running till tonight. Confounding my gloomy assumptions, quite a range of unlikely people were prepared to give these a go, even if they later confessed to me that "all this touchy feely stuff left them cold",- so I'm left feeling deeply grateful, - to both the Chestertons for their vision and creativity, and to Sheila for her courage in going ahead with the evening.

A year ago, nobody at St Mary's had ever experienced this kind of non verbal,right-brain type of prayer...but now they've had no less than 3 prayer trails set out in church, and they seem to feel braver every time. At this rate, we'll be able to let God out of the Box before we're too much older. Deo gratias!

This is just silly :-)

You Are Kermit

Hi, ho! Lovable and friendly, you get along well with everyone you know. You're a big thinker, and sometimes you over think life's problems. Don't worry - everyone know's it's not easy being green. Just remember, time's fun when you're having flies!

The Muppet Personality Test

Thanks to Spidey for the link

Some serious navel gazing...

Or thus, I'm sure, the poor LongsufferingClockmaker would describe it. He could well have a point...
You see, following on from the preaching experience, I’ve been thinking a bit more about how personality can help or hinder in ministry. I don’t mean the obvious, that you will connect better with some of your congregation than others, simply because you are who you are. It’s rather a question of how far it is appropriate or desirable to use oneself, and the relationship that exists with the congregation, when leading worship. I don’t expect I’m making any sense, so let me do a bit more digging.
I guess this is something that has been at the back of my mind for a while, but it was brought into sharp focus by the experience of leading that London funeral 2 weeks ago. At the “do” afterwards, several people said things like “I could cope with it all as long as you were speaking…you held me together….”
And I’ve been trying to work out quite what is going on here. I worry that somehow by being as “me” as I was, I was somehow getting in between those people and the God who was there pouring love and consolation into the whole situation. I know I can’t lead worship as anyone except myself, and I would be totally unable to manage the kind of remote and impersonal style I remember from some AngloCatholic priests of my childhood (who would also remove their wedding ring in the vestry, as a sign of this negation of self), even if I felt that this was the right thing (which I don’t). I know that loving my congregation and being loved by them is part of our being church together.
But God forbid, please, that anyone should get so embroiled in relating to me that they forget to look any further
Reading that, it sounds incredibly arrogant. How could I ever imagine that they might?
And yet, I do know that when I’m having a totally blissful time celebrating the Eucharist there are some there who are at least partly enjoying me enjoying the experience. It’s another manifestation of the great trap for clergy of being needed and loved and loved and needed. To use our whole selves to attract people to God seems fine (isn't that sometimes known as witnessing??)…to have a life so shaped by Him that it inspires others would be totally wonderful…but how does one ensure that people do make the whole journey? There are too many stories of maiden ladies of bygone years who went to church to worship the vicar, and though I’m not talking about exactly the same thing, there are some disturbing similarities.
So, how do I get myself out of the way,- while being true to the understanding that God has called me to ministry, to be myself for Him?
Or shouldn’t I even expect to?

Glad tidings.

Norman Kember and the remaining peace activists are free. Full story here
And amid all the rejoicing, renewed prayers for the friends and family of Tom Fox.
It seems specially cruel that he should have been singled out to die. I do hope that those who love him share the faith and principles that inspired him to offer himself thus, and that they will be of comfort.

Another poem for Joseph

Serena wanted to know the origin of “The Handyman of the Lord”…which I quite agree is a wonderful phrase, with such a ring of truth to it.
I have a lovely anthology “The Christmas Road”, which was a gift from my former vicar…and in it appears this gem, the creation of a four year old who was singing to her doll. Hugely unseasonal, but if I wait till a more appropriate time of year, I’ll forget all about it. So, please just suspend your chronological faculties for the moment.

When the baby borned
Joseph said to Mary
“What am I going to do about
This little-born Jesus baby Christ?
I never knew it was going to be like this
With all these angles and kings
And shepherds and stars and things.
It’s got me worried, I can tell you
On Christmas day in the morning.”

Mary said to Joseph
“Not to worry, my darling
Dear old darling Joseph,
Everything’s going to be all right
Because the angel told me not to fear;
So just hold up the lamp
So I can see the dear, funny, sweet, little face
Of my darling little-born Jesus baby Christ.”

Joseph said to Mary
“Behold the handyman of the Lord”

Happy Christmas, Happy Christmas,
Christ is born today.

I wonder what happened to that child. I wish I could write like that.

A better perspective

As you may have deduced from the thinly disguised hysteria in recent posts, I've been feeling rather overwhelmed at the sheer busy-ness of Lent this year. (Please note, I say "This year" because I am fully determined not to get drawn into quite such mania ever again. I know it's neither healthy nor sustainable and both WonderfulVicar and I plan to refuse to play next time round: and yes, please DO hold me accountable...I need it)
Part of the problem has been that I've not had a full day off, for my very own self, since Lent started, as our Lent talks (which I arranged) had to be on Wednesday evenings. Add to this the Wedneday funeral in London, the trip to Cardiff (lovely, but stressful thanks to the car) and a general sense that there is stuff that I should be getting on with whichever way I turn, at home and in the parish, and one way and another I was really REALLY longing to get right out of Ch Kings and take the dogs for a serious walk somewhere this Wednesday. Sounds good, doesn't it?
However, sadly LongsufferingClockmaker's car obviously felt that mine had been getting too much attention, and had a breakdown of its very own while he was visiting customers in London yesterday, and had to be brought home on an RAC recovery wagon. This meant in turn that LC needed my car to get himself to work and the boys to school. And no, there was no hope that his car might be repaired in time for me to go off somewhere later in the day, if I went in with him and hung around his workshop (not something I enjoy anyway, as it feels odd being just across the garden from our house, but not actually living there).
Cue very unedifying tantrum (clearly the whole thing had been engineered just to spite me! it's obvious, isn't it?!) and a sulky start to the day off.
But it's definitely spring today, so even I couldn't just sit in the dark in the corner of my stable muttering about dirty straw and cobwebs...The dogs and I set out following a woodland footpath we use quite often. Generally we run out of time and have to retrace our steps as the path begins to climb, but today we went on, till we emerged from the trees onto open hillside. At this point, having guided me through a kissing gate, the footpath signs left me stranded in a field with no obvious exit route, so I put the dogs on the lead just in case we were suddenly trespassing. 30 seconds later I was so glad we had. A deer emerged from behind a clump of gorse, all of 20 yards away from us...It was intent on its grazing, and didn't notice us for almost a minute, then Dillon (ADHD JackRussell) awoke to the reality that I was thwarting his pursuit of something far more exciting than a tennis ball and let out his (all-too characteristic) frantic bark...and it was gone. With unimaginable grace,-it's hooves barely touching the turf. Breathtaking.

As was the view spread out below me in the spring sunshine. All those houses, offices, shops...so many many people hurtling around in their daily routines....but from the hillside all seemed calm, even in the parish of St Mary's, Charlton Kings.
I'm glad I couldn't escape as completely as I'd planned. Staying put but getting a fresh perspective was far more helpful.

I don't believe it!

One week ago, I blogged the nightmare of a diary wiped completely, as if its contents had never been.
On Saturday, having received the 2006 filofax diary insert from SPCK, I spent a frustrating couple of hours writing up all my engagements for the next few months and reminding myself how it feels to carry around a bulging folder...
Today, at 5.25 precisely, LoudBoy, who had been playing with the Psion shrieked
"Mummy, I've found your diary!"
Somehow, for some unfathomable reason, the psion had elected to open a new diary on top of my original...It wasn't until LoudBoy was trying to get rid of all my files before taking over the psion as an extra techie toy that this new diary, untouched by curate's hand, was persuaded to depart....leaving my original sitting happily below. It's ALL THERE.
Every. Last. Word.
I know I ought to be happy (specially if we really can persuade one of the PCs on our network to accept the psion software, so that backing up is a real option) but actually this feels like the unkindest cut of all. If it's broken, I don't want it fixed just after I've worked out an alternative action plan. So, excuse me but I'm going off to my sulking spot. It looks very comfy tonight.

Behold the handyman of the Lord!

As a mother who has rather grabbed the limelight when it comes to parenting, and who is verily married to an extremely LongsufferingClockmaker, it's been good to spend a little time today thinking about Joseph. Our diocesan Praying through Lent resource had a splendid reflection by Doug Gay, which you'll find at Mark's Dissonant Bible blog* .....and Mark's whole idea of J skulking round the corner seemed all too likely and real. Here's U.A. Fanthorpe's take on the man, which has given me plenty to ponder today.

I am Joseph, carpenter,
Of David’s kingly line,
I wanted an heir, discovered
My wife’s son wasn’t mine.

I am an obstinate lover,
Loved Mary for better or worse.
Wouldn’t stop loving when I found
Someone Else came first.

Mine was the likeness I hoped for
When the first-born man-child came
But nothing of him was me, I couldn’t
Even choose his name.

I am Joseph who wanted
To teach my own boy how to live.
My lesson for my foster son:
Endure. Love. Give.

*Oh rejoice with exceeding great joy! Mark is blogging again on both his sites...if he keeps it up, I might even forgive him for changing diocese ;-)

Kill the inner editor?

That's the motto of the wonderful writing courses that DarlingDaughter attends at Kilve Court each spring. Ironically, when it's applied to her creative writing, the intention is to encourage her to write as she feels, without constantly worrying that content or style are not, somehow, "good enough"...but the words were floating around in the ether at St M's this morning, with a rather different intent.
You see, I had an interesting, if not particularly pleasant conversation with someone after Eucharist,- the gist of which was that I had, in my sermon this morning, been guilty of distorting Scripture to suit my own ends…
At the time this felt like an outrageous thing to say, something that hit me at the very heart of my integrity as a minister of God, and I struggled not to get really upset.(managed not to show it, which felt like a major achievement in itself!) I was all too aware that there was another agenda coming into play during the conversation (as it has done too often before), which had nothing whatsoever to do with my words from the pulpit, butall the same, it has made me think about the degree to which our preaching is inevitably shaped by the concerns that are foremost in our minds and hearts.
When I’m preparing a sermon, I read the text, I pray, I read commentaries, I read lectionary blogs, I pray, I read some more and pray again…I carry the text around with me for the best part of a week…I don’t, ever, consciously start by thinking “Ah hah…now, I can use this text to support my views on X or my plans for Y” or even “I’ll preach on this, because it’s all about….”
I really and truly do my utmost to hear what God would like me to find, what he wants me to say to those people at that time…that, of course, is why the morning’s comments hurt so much.

But despite this, of course, there’s no denying that I do make choices as a sermon develops. From the moment that I decide to preach on the Gospel rather than the Epistle or the Old Testament passage, I’m committing myself to a particular path…and it’s impossible not to exercise some sort of editorial process as I begin to write. I can’t totally banish myself, my personality, my concerns from my writing or from my preaching.
I don’t actually believe that God wants me to. If he called me, Kathryn, to minister in his church, then there must be some bits of Kathryn that he thinks are worth using.
That doesn’t give me the right to ride rough shod over the text when preparing a sermon, but I’m hugely aware of the dangerous responsibility inherent in all preaching, and believe you me, I don’t ever approach it lightly.

Henri Nouwen does it again

There are many forms of poverty: economic poverty, physical
poverty, emotional poverty, mental poverty, and spiritual
poverty. As long as we relate primarily to each other's
wealth, health, stability, intelligence, and soul strength,
we cannot develop true community. Community is not a talent
show in which we dazzle the world with our combined gifts.
Community is the place where our poverty is acknowledged and
accepted, not as something we have to learn to cope with as
best as we can but as a true source of new life.

Living community in whatever form - family, parish,
twelve-step program, or intentional community - challenges
us to come together at the place of our poverty, believing
that there we can reveal our richness.

Scary stuff...but I'd love to try.

A good week for wipe-outs

Having just emerged from a really tough Lent study group, in which I talked far too much and failed to help either of the group members who had Big Issues they needed to explore, I then managed to wipe the 3/4 of a (rather poor) sermon I've spent most of today producing.
And tomorrow I have a wedding couple in the morning and a sister in law's birthday in the evening, and tons too much other stuff to fit in along the way...so even if the sermon deserved obliteration, I've not really got the time to rewrite it (so, naturally, I'm blogging the disaster instead of getting on with remedying it)

In other news,

• the car needs not just a new fan but a whole new cooling unit (or some such...all I can see is the pound signs)

• DarlingDaughter has reached at least a temporary decision re uni's...won't post anything till she has sent off the forms, in case she changes her mind, but it would be lovely if this one worked out.

• And her gap year travel is now being delayed by, of all things, a dental appointment...but she seems to be about to commit herself finally to teaching in Thailand. Hooray.

• The filofax diary with lectionary arrived today and is HUGE and reminded me instantly why I gave up on this medium. I don't want to always have to carry around a ton of paper.Will stick it out till the end of the year, and see how things feel then...but expect to revert to a.n.other electronic organiser (that WILL talk to my computer) once we hit Advent.

• Oh, and I've given up giving up alcohol...I'll do without gin, chocolate and fiction but right now I need a glass of wine. Sorry Tony, if you're reading this. I'm just too feak and weeble to stay the course. Think I need a retreat. Soon.

Quote for today

from the excellent Mealtime Habits of the Messiah by Conrad Gempf

"Blessed are the desperate".