Reflections
- Bluebelle, Daily Life, I Never Thought I'd Be In This Situation, Jinx, Mrs. Orr, Photographs, Prayers, Reflections
In The Carolean Era
We went Thursday evening to the orthopedic urgent care clinic I mentioned in my last post, and it was a surprisingly good experience. I was dreading any encounter with the post-coof medical/pharmaceutical behemoth, but this was an example of being in the right place at the right time. It was clear as soon as we entered the clinic that we were the only people in the place. The receptionist was kind and affable, and got me checked in quickly. An x-ray tech who looked like Lisa Loeb’s twin sister appeared with a most-welcome wheelchair and took me back for pictures of my knee. She, too, was very kind and personable,…
-
My Knee Grows
For a couple of weeks now, my right knee has been giving me fits. I assumed it was arthritis at first, but then the pain increased gradually and reminded me of the time I hyperextended one of my knees several years ago. Been hobbling around for a few days, using a cane when walking farther than from room to room. I figured I hurt it when I hopped off the lawn tractor week before last and landed with some unsteadiness. This past Saturday, I broke the belt on the tractor and had to end up mowing the back yard with a push mower before it rained, planning to go the…
-
A Short Testament
Often, prayer is beyond me, and this is due to many things. Poetry can so often herald the inner storm that might burst into prayer, but sometimes does not. This poem by Anne Porter is one of those lightning-rod works. I hope you feel its power and its pathos. ~ S.K. Orr A Short Testament by Anne Porter Whatever harm I may have done In all my life in all your wide creation creation If I cannot repair it I beg you to repair it, And then there are all the wounded The poor the deaf the lonely and the old Whom I have roughly dismissed As if I…
-
Across The Silent Night Sky
The weekend was a mellow, mild, and very welcome time to be at home and with my wife. We didn’t launch into any major projects, but did a lot of what I call “piddling around,” and enjoyed being outside in the warm weather. I’ve learned not to overestimate my stamina anymore, so I don’t plan day-long series of projects. I do one, take a break, assess how I feel, then move on to another one IF I still have gas in my tank. We have had problems with squirrels getting into Mrs. Orr’s flowers in pots on the porches, so I cut circles from hardware fabric, cut a circle in…
-
Soft Days
We finally saw our first hummingbird last evening and were so happy to see him. We were relaxing on the back porch and the whirr of his wings made us both look up in delight. He didn’t stay long, but here was there, so we were content. Bluebelle did her part….I had her on hummingbird sentry duty all day and had ordered her to sing a song to coax them in. Mrs. Orr got our taxes done, and I am reminded again of how gifted she is in so many ways, and how she takes so many burdens from my shoulders. A latent benefit of her doing the taxes instead…
- Church Life, Daily Life, Holy Days, I Never Thought I'd Be In This Situation, Photographs, Prayers, Reflections
Easter Sunday
The sun will set in a little while, and another holy day will be memory and history. We sat outside as much as we could today, but the brisk breeze kept forcing us to retreat inside. Sitting directly in the sun helped a bit, but it was still chilly, so we didn’t get as many outdoor hours as we had hoped. The dogs romped and rolled in the grass, and the birds were so numerous and so active, we were in awe. We watched all day for a hummingbird — a year ago today, we got our first hummingbird of the spring –but none ever appeared. We had a fine…
- Church Life, Daily Life, Holy Days, I Never Thought I'd Be In This Situation, Lectio Divina, Photographs, Prayers, Reflections
Between Sorrow And Joy
I recently read someone’s observation that Good Friday is the end of all things, and also the beginning of all things. The phrase is a barbed one; it stings and stays with me. I think on how Christ’s disciples must have felt after their master was lowered from the cross. limp and bloodless and silent as a slaughtered lamb. The women took charge of caring for His body, and they must have discussed the burial details with the generous Arimathean, Joseph, and the men present must have seen the body taken away, and then the reality settled down on them. How silent it must have been. In their shock and…
- Bluebelle, Church Life, Daily Life, Dixee, Holy Days, Jinx, Movies, Mrs. Orr, Paintings, Photographs, Prayers, Reflections
Maundy Thursday
Tomorrow is already Good Friday, and what a wonder it is to be this far along in the year already. Our weather has been quite warm, and we had to actually break down and put on the air conditioning last night after the sun baked the house all day long. I am enjoying the lack of pain in the joints, but I will confess that both Mrs. Orr and I sleep better in the colder weather. We both tossed and turned a lot last night due to the closeness of the room, even though we did have the fan on. It’s supposed to be cooler the next three days, and…
- Church Life, Daily Life, Holy Days, I Never Thought I'd Be In This Situation, Lectio Divina, Mrs. Orr, Photographs, Prayers, Reflections, Saints
Holy Week
The days have unspooled quickly in this early part of springtime. My interior life has been not in turmoil but in flux, an almost palpable ebb and flow, and through all my misgivings and doubts and ragings and grim, silent musings, I have felt like some sort of antenna, unmoored but still grounded, with invisible signals popping and whizzing around me during my hours. A good friend, who roves across much of the same rocky spiritual landscape I do, recently mentioned in passing how he just might be holding onto a hope that he will one day believe again. That sentiment sang in me like a tuning fork when a…
-
Winter’s Final Friday
When she began speaking, her voice was a low cello moan, Within a few minutes, she poured the tears of today’s life , sobbing out the the bitterness of an inhaled breath of misery. As she talked, her voice became a viola, then a violin, then a bass, then back to the cello, but always, always, the pulling of the dusty bow across the singing strings, the overeager squeak of the changed strokes, the whisper of her engraved finger-pads on the stretched strands of gut. The etude, the very composition itself set down in dots and flags of salty water on the staves for the sheer purpose of challenge and…