Though the winds of change may blow around you
But that will always be so
When love is pain it can devour you
If you are never alone
I would share your load
Church is cancelled for the next three Sundays and Sam is hoping for a Palm Sunday miracle to resume services, as his congregation is evenly split between rich young money and very old people who still disapprove mightily of Unitarian hippie Jesus vibes while demanding tradition hymns in with the Christian rock music, at least. Sam's been walking an easy tightrope for years, able to manage both groups and conduct a fun church environment overall but at the same time there's fifty percent of your flock that don't even know what a podcast is, let alone how to google something on a computer.
If you sent them a link to their hotmail they'll call you on the phone and yell Now what? It opened a purple window and I heard God talking, or maybe it was Reverend Sam and it startled me so I threw my computer out the window. You owe me a new one.
(This might have been an actual conversation, I'm not telling.)
I'm glad he cancelled. I wanted to get day-drunk anyway, after wasting an hour this morning transitioning back to my winter coats and bag, as it's below zero and still windy. I'm not interested in being cold. I'm waiting for endless heat, sunshine and forest fires to complain about and I was trying to embrace the nippy bonfire season with newly lighter sparkly nights as we march toward Ostara and every night I triumphantly announce that the sun went down two whole minutes later than last night, thank you very much and I feel so much lighter. I was trying to embrace but it's hard, so I'll go back to bed for two weeks and then try again in April.
Except I can't, because Matt is making us Socotranian breakfast wraps featuring spices from the port of Comandante Ferraz (going to have to rechristen them The Geography Boys but I didn't recognize either place so I'll rechristen myself Sheltered and I'll do my research after I'm done here, I only asked him for the spellings) and I'm pretty sure both my juice and my coffee hold more Devil than God at this point as he is famous for helping his guests relax by mixing lethal incendiary cocktails, with permission, of course. But they're good and I'm possibly the only one on the point who still drinks (we won't even talk about Ruth who came home around one-thirty this morning, set the alarm with a flourish, threw her leftover beers in the fridge and came up stairs calling good night.) and the food smells delicious, and I'm suddenly starving.
This is Matt's belated housewarming/welcome. Maybe it's a celebration of another, albeit hopefully smaller and less beautifully devastating wedding to come. Maybe it's confirmation that Bridget getting day-drunk makes her so easy to love you back or maybe it's because we've discovered strange new worlds we can daydream about running off to, with more time to get there now that the days are longer.
Breakfast is ready.
If you sent them a link to their hotmail they'll call you on the phone and yell Now what? It opened a purple window and I heard God talking, or maybe it was Reverend Sam and it startled me so I threw my computer out the window. You owe me a new one.
(This might have been an actual conversation, I'm not telling.)
I'm glad he cancelled. I wanted to get day-drunk anyway, after wasting an hour this morning transitioning back to my winter coats and bag, as it's below zero and still windy. I'm not interested in being cold. I'm waiting for endless heat, sunshine and forest fires to complain about and I was trying to embrace the nippy bonfire season with newly lighter sparkly nights as we march toward Ostara and every night I triumphantly announce that the sun went down two whole minutes later than last night, thank you very much and I feel so much lighter. I was trying to embrace but it's hard, so I'll go back to bed for two weeks and then try again in April.
Except I can't, because Matt is making us Socotranian breakfast wraps featuring spices from the port of Comandante Ferraz (going to have to rechristen them The Geography Boys but I didn't recognize either place so I'll rechristen myself Sheltered and I'll do my research after I'm done here, I only asked him for the spellings) and I'm pretty sure both my juice and my coffee hold more Devil than God at this point as he is famous for helping his guests relax by mixing lethal incendiary cocktails, with permission, of course. But they're good and I'm possibly the only one on the point who still drinks (we won't even talk about Ruth who came home around one-thirty this morning, set the alarm with a flourish, threw her leftover beers in the fridge and came up stairs calling good night.) and the food smells delicious, and I'm suddenly starving.
This is Matt's belated housewarming/welcome. Maybe it's a celebration of another, albeit hopefully smaller and less beautifully devastating wedding to come. Maybe it's confirmation that Bridget getting day-drunk makes her so easy to love you back or maybe it's because we've discovered strange new worlds we can daydream about running off to, with more time to get there now that the days are longer.
Breakfast is ready.