“And infant voices shall proclaim their early blessings on his name”*

by chuckofish

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(Napping wee babes who look like they are sitting up, but are not actually.)

Although it appears that spring has sprung here in flyover country, we all know that this is unlikely. Not to say we did not enjoy the weather this weekend!

I worked in the yard and wore myself out, but what a nice change! While outside, I watched a battle royal between a bunch of crows and a red-tailed hawk that was amazing. Such a ruckus. I gather that crows hate red-tailed hawks and with good reason probably, but count me on team red-tailed hawk.

Anyway, no matter what happens now weather-wise, it won’t be long ’til spring.

I went to church and read the first lesson (the Levitcus reading about love thy neighbor as thyself) and was also the Intercessor. The Gospel lesson was the one about “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect,” which is setting the bar pretty high for this week.

I started re-reading An Uncertain Place by the French mystery writer Fred Vargas, who is a favorite of mine.

Adamsberg imagined Danglard’s mind as a block of fine limestone, where rain, in other words questions, had hollowed out countless basins in which his worries gathered, unresolved. Every day, three or four of these basins were active simultaneously. Just now, the journey through the tunnel, the woman in London, the feet in Highgate. As Adamsberg had explained to him, the energy Danglard expended on these questions, seeking to empty out the basins, was a waste of time. Because no sooner had he cleared out one space than it made way for something else, for another set of agonizing questions. By digging away at them, he was stopping peaceful sedimentation from taking place, and the natural filling up of the excavations, which would happen if he forgot about them.

If you have not discovered Fred Vargas, I recommend her.

Following up on my blogpost on Friday, I watched a lot of Miami Vice, season three.

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This is always a good idea.

The boy and daughter #3 came over after a day at the hospital for spaghetti last night and that was fun.

I could use another day after such a busy weekend, but, alas, I do not have Presidents Day off. Lucky you, if you do.

*Isaac Watts (1674-1748) hymn #544