Sunday Morning
Up at three o’clock, my thinking time, with coffee and to worry this doubtful sermon, now it’s four-thirteen. On a preaching day my Sunday morning routine is underway with way on. Contemplate for a moment the blessings of +Time with those I love; back to the sermon with a marking pen at five; at six o’clock a quick breakfast then shave, shower, don the glum black shirt and goofy white collar; by seven walk out the door with Linda reminding, got your ears? got your sermon? don’t forget the children! got your keys? are you zipped? got your phone? as I doublecheck, press the down arrow, slip into the elevator to be whisked to the underground garage where my Buick waits impatiently.
It's a Buick Century. Buick first used that series name in the 1930s
to proclaim that this car with the largest straight eight engine could do the century: over a hundred miles an hour.
to proclaim that this car with the largest straight eight engine could do the century: over a hundred miles an hour.
Now it’s four-twenty-one, whatever am I thinking? Tomorrow our regular Monday morning walk, staff meeting, bite of lunch, drive to Tallahassee, Staybridge again (it was fine); there until Thursday. Supposedly the closing on sale of our house is Friday. Supposedly. So Friday morning walk, graveside service for the family of someone who has become a very special friend, house closing.
And, no I did not finish installing new steps at 819. Bought the material and assembled my tools, but by then the heat and humidity were too staggering to work outside.
Sunday School.
TW+
That is not my Buick Century, but in faith and hope, one just like it, or red, is parked, engine running, top down, in the circular drive in front of my mansion in heaven.
That is not my Buick Century, but in faith and hope, one just like it, or red, is parked, engine running, top down, in the circular drive in front of my mansion in heaven.