Monday, December 17, 2007

America is great because she is good. If America ceases to be good, America will cease to be great. -Alexis de Tocqueville

It's been rumbling around in my mind. I think it's true.

My husband came to church today and remarked on how good the pastor is. This pastor should be in a metropolitan area. I can't believe I found him in a town of 7,000.

I don't know if he'll come to church again. I can't nag him. There's a line between nagging and asking. The pastor is so articulate I don't know how he can not want to go back. But I always get to church late (at least I'm consistent?) and my husband is a very timely person. He even wants to go to parties, well, actually nowadays I'd say "get-togethers" on time and I tell him it's very uncool to be right on time. So since he came today we were on time and the talking, it's called fellowship, is too much for me. Now I can't sleep. Guess I should go read something.

For evening study, this is the first time in awhile that I was completely lost. I didn't follow much of the teaching. It was about Jesus and David and the lineage. Quite confusing if you don't get it. And a guy whose name starts with M who was Jesus incarnate or something. I need my notes, but it's dark right now so I'm just blathering. I'm fascinated by what I didn't understand though. Can't wait to read through my notes.

My hair. My husband ran into one that was across the doorway somehow and he thought it was a spiderweb. Then he sat in the chair and pulled a long one off of the chair. I might need to vacuum this place. More frequently it's getting caught in a screw that is in the wall behind me in the bathroom. I'm needing more elbow room lately.

Which reminds me. Tonight I saw a group photo of my graduating class (1977) from the reunion in October. Talk about disillusioned. Thought I was going to have a heart attack. Does 48 look that old? It does. Sadly, it does. You can't stay young forever. And I recall that at the Luminaria a kid about 17 years old called me Ma'am. Brutal. I am so crying in my soup tonight. Not that I want to be 17. Far from it. But I wouldn't mind 27. Shoot, I wouldn't mind 37. I wouldn't mind 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, or 46. Sigh.

The other day I was looking for a word. I hate it when I need a word and I can't think of it. It's like I can feel the word but I can't find it. I have to settle for some one or two syllable word that's not as descriptive. Anyway, it was anecdotal. What was it I was writing that I needed it for now? Hmmmm. Can't remember. Ha! Small annoyances never end.