It's my blog, and within limits of decency I'll post here whatever I DWP. So, it pleases me to gaze upon a couple outlooks from 7H while contemplating the day ahead. Gazing, I see an iceberg dead-ahead.
Opens with the elixir of hot lemon water (not my idea but I'll do anything to maintain the truce), read some of C.S. Lewis, then Kona and dark chocolate, heart pills, contemplate breakfast, decide on liverwurst on very thin wheat toast but open fridge and settle on one stuffed egg half that wasn't pretty enough to take to church Sunday, and from FM yesterday, one garlic clove, one large green olive stuffed with sun-dried tomato, one mushroom in olive oil, one queen olive stuffed with pimiento, second cup black Kona in my glass cup that Tass brought me from England, August 2001. I'm a treasure person, see, this is one of my treasures, Linda knows better than to touch it.
What I'm contemplating is the fraud I was made out to be, the word is actually revealed, Sunday morning last. I'm contemplating runners, marathon and olympics. That marathon runner was a fraud who jumped into the race at the last minute. And that olympic runner: his country didn't send him seven thousand miles to start the race, but to finish the race. Just so, my bishop and fellow priests didn't mash on my head, push me down into the floor and ordain me to sort out my own weird personal theology, but to proclaim Christ, and him crucified. These three decades and more, I've not done right by their faith in me, or by the faith of people who trust me. Coming on halfway through my race and starting to run the race after having lived my real life, I'm ...
What now? I'll think about it, contemplate.
The [one] reading, let him understand.
That looks like an iceberg, but it isn't. Or maybe it is.
Hard left rudder. All engines stop. Port back full. Starboard ahead full. Uh oh, running aground at Davis Point. All engines stop. All back full.
DThos+ in +Time+