ὁ ἀναγινώσκων νοείτω

Let the Reader Understand

because I certainly don’t

Tardy, seeming somehow backwards, upside down and inside out, day begins a half hour late for me this morning. Maybe it was the cool, dry bedroom. And the silence: the porch door at my head was closed and the upstairs air conditioning on against the humidity, forbidding the sounds from the Bay that I love, so, quieter slept later. Maybe it was the small glass of red wine instead of supper, followed by a TV special on the battles of Vicksburg where Linda’s great-grandmother was wounded during General Grant’s outrage, and Gettysburg lost simultaneously, our beloved General Lee having made more than one fatal error within sight of my seminary classroom window.

I love the man and our idea of him, I do not love the cause for which he fought, and Lee did not either, but he was a Virginian before he was an American. I don’t understand that. I always loved singing “Dixie” but it never signed me a Southerner or Floridian over being an American. In fact, slightly to digress, I do not like for the American flag to be carried in church procession as we used to do, because I find that I cannot see the Cross for the Flag.

The wine is the Black Box that I bought for the first time. Cabernet, it’s decent, considerably cheaper per ounce than bottle wine -- if it gets drunk and not wasted -- but its quantity is four bottles worth and the inscription says it will last four weeks, which at three ounces three or four days a week means it still will go bad on me, making it not cheap after all. I may take it to Wednesday evening church and supper tomorrow evening so it’s not wasted. In a swarm of Episcopalians, wine is never wasted. A swarm? or is it a covey? or a congregation (no, that's alligators). Swarm then

So, backwards, upside down and inside out, a small cup of strong coffee with one of Linda’s little creamer things instead of Navy black. Out back for the PCNH -- I don’t read it, Linda reads it and tells me when there’s something I need to see -- but it isn’t there, WTH? Oh yes, yesterday it was left down front at Beach Drive instead of on the driveway at Calhoun Avenue, which means we have either a substitute or a new carrier. Coffee with which, instead of the routine of browsing Google news followed by email, go to yesterday’s Nonsense and change one line slightly so it alludes hymn words “passeth human knowing.” And now, not finally I presume, but now, fingers dance out God only knows what.

Where am I? Besides the age thing, and the thing about Easter surprising me this year with death before life -- though I’m getting used to it enough to probably climb down from the tree (ὁ ἀναγινώσκων νοείτω), I’m stuck on John of Damascus’ line “passeth human knowing” which tells my theology. I love J.D.'s hymn, “Come, ye faithful, raise the strain,” while bitterly, bitterly disliking but tolerating our Easter hymn “The strife is o’er, the battle done.” It takes me to 1947 and my grandmother’s grave and to most of the funerals I’ve attended or officiated over my years, and directly to whatever most recent death is grieving me. Hymns have association and sometimes I don’t want to go there. If I must sing hymns, I need smiles, not tears.

Whoops, back up in the tree.

Yep, the paper was down front. To probably climb: let the reader understand even if the English teacher rants.

W+