“Don’t answer the prayers of the traveler” goes the ancient prayer. Travelers don’t want rain, farmers do. Seems that I must have a traveler in my neighborhood as I watch the “Belton Sandwich” on the weather radar. Heavy rain clouds scoot on by on both sides wetting Killeen and Heidenheimer, but nary a drop in the middle. Gotta find that traveler a new route.
The sad tones “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond” played on an electric fiddle and banjo fills the air, but what does the bird know of happy and sad songs? Banjos and fiddles are always a cause for rejoicing, and rejoice she does, and it oddly effects me.
And it’s Preparation Day again as the summer slips by and the AC hums relentlessly in the background. My Japanese/American/Swedish cousin made it to visit her American ancestors and paid her respects at the graves of her grandparents and parents. Some of her cousins made the trip with her, but it was just one bridge too far for me these days. The wandering boy with the itchy foot hardly leaves the house anymore. Birth, engendering and death were impelled, while all else was optional. I am spent of all of God’s prime directives save one, and now what I put my hand to is optional.
In each of those options is at least one challenge to choose the good over the evil. And with each passing year, that choice becomes more refined. Once upon a time evil was in the deed, but today, the evil begins in the thought. I long for the day when this gift of Eve’s is rescinded, and I no longer must weary myself in the continual choosing.
So I sip coffee, skirt the evil thought, and ponder good triumphing.