I’ve been blogging for a whole year and two days! I spent a little time the other day going through early posts – I think I mostly write because I like rereading it. Self-centered much? I like remembering things through writing about them. It’s a nice gauge for seeing what’s changed and what hasn’t. I don’t really know what’s changed in the past year. But I always love seeing what I was thinking one year ago today, or two years ago, or whatever.

The other day I was thinking about all the funny church things I used to write about and feeling sad that I’d apparently lost my sacrilegious touch. But then the church in her wisdom provided me with the Prodigal Son. Theoretically, each week as we get closer to setting sail on the sea of the fast, the gospel reading will prepare us. It’s all a lovely, gentle progression. You’ve got Zacchaeus, then the Publican and the Pharisee, the Prodigal Son, the Last Judgment and then Forgiveness Sunday with the red capital letters – LENT BEGINS. NO RAW MILK. NO TURKEY SANDWICHES. NO HALF & HALF IN GLASS BOTTLES. NO BUTTER. Ahem.

But as a consolation, like I was saying, we’ve got the Prodigal Son. You’re a few minutes late for vespers and doing the “sing along without a book and pretend you know the words” thing (it’s pretty easy to get about half the words – you can always see the last bit coming). You decide to take a handout for the special music of the week and your heart leaps as you spot – yes – your favorite! The corn of forgiveness! Lock me up in your storehouse and save me! Oh the joy. I take it as a sign. Just when you’re getting down about Lent coming, you’re reminded of all that’s to come and you find yourself humming Holy Week music as you shuffle papers at work.


My brother, he now owns a charcoal grey suit. And a nice greenish tie. And a taupe-ish shirt (except I dislike the word taupe). And the world of men’s clothing? It’s a whole other world. I kind of like it. I’m intrigued by it. We went to one of those places where you’re accosted when you walk in the door and the salesman immediately whips out a measuring tape and directs you (or your brother) to the proper size and swiftly dresses you in one coat and then another and then whisks you off to the dressing room for pants and while you change he lays out a variety of shirts and ties on a little table. Then he forces you to make a decision even though you “don’t care.” And he asks your sister if she is your date and she laughs and then says, “no, I’m his sister” in her best “don’t mess with me” voice. And then you hand over a credit card and are told to come back on Saturday! And your dad says it’s like picking out a suit for your own funeral. And you probably won’t ever buy another suit, being who you are, and will probably wear it to your funeral. The pants can be expanded, after all.