Saying Too Much
about that wind in the pines
It’s possible to say too much, isn’t it. My diet -- no, d _ _ _ is one of those four-letter words I try to skip here -- my range of foods since October 2010 specifically excludes bacon; but yesterday our Thanksgiving spread included a Brussels sprouts dish that Ray makes once or twice a year starting last Thanksgiving. Whether he blanches them first I don’t know, but they are sliced and cooked in cream with a couple of other things including lots of cut up bits of bacon. The pot cooks down until it’s thicker than the most delicious brown turkey gravy, and I had one small serving. But I did not eat Ray’s mashed potatoes before the FDA comes out and determines whether the first ingredient listed must be potatoes or heavy cream. Anyway, there being some of both last night for leftovers, my supper included a spare tablespoon of Ray’s mashed with a tablespoon of the sprouts gravy, then the ACE inhibitor, carvedilol and statin; plus a furosemide even knowing it would increase nocturnal activity from one wandering to several.
Yes, it is possible to say too much. Which reminds, my rough draft Sunday sermon needs cutting way back.
Wednesday arrived in the mail the used copy of Robert Funk’s The Gospel of Jesus which I read yesterday. For a couple bucks on Amazon Prime with free shipping, rated “good” and never even been touched. On the other hand, the used, “good” copy of Machen’s N.T. Greek for Beginners that came last week looks like it’s been passed along from generation to generation of eager seminarians with pencils, pens and yellow highlighters; no lie, there is even a sticky note inside that says “please give to Phil C.” or some such. Funk's gospel is good, if like a puzzle with several pieces missing, more again some morning.
This isn’t where I meant to go, this morning I was going to do Funk. A week or so ago, knowing how my Thanksgiving dinner plate would look, Linda handed me a health article that warns overeating brings on heart attack, so my plate was half of what I wanted, I drank only one glass of Pinot Noir, had a tiny sliver of pumpkin pie, and did not leave the table feeling stuffed. What came to mind on the second or third nocturnal rising was a comic strip from earlier in the week
and my trip to Greenwood yesterday. A cold morning for Florida, gate still chained and padlocked at seven o’clock, so to Dodge’s for gasoline, and when I returned at seven-fifteen gates were open. Cold, windy, blue sky, it’s a beautiful day, otherwise it would have felt bitter, but both graves are close to the center road, easy to get out and visit for a few minutes. Thinking of both Darby Conley and John 14:2, mindful of the turkey with oyster dressing I would make sure not to overeat in five hours, realizing from my time alone with them at Wilson’s last year that neither one was there and I really was alone, so why do I come except for love when it still stirs my rage at the deity, I monologue. Where are you? Silence. Wind in the pines. What’s it like? No reply. Has He kept His promise? Silence. More wind. Wind? Don’t I remember Mary Elizabeth Frye?
Breakfast this morning, with little girls making the noise that is so welcome and alive, will be black coffee and another sliver of pumpkin pie.
A thousand winds that blow.
TW+