It’s Wednesday morning. The silent prayers around the table have ended. Now the group of ladies meeting each week are asked to recite the Lord’s Prayer together.
There’d be no shame in not knowing it.
But I’m glad I do.
Another day, another group. This time around a gravesite. The pastor requests those gathered around to say Psalm 23, “The Lord is my shepherd . . . .”
I’m comforted in the recitation.
There are certain things I have regretted learning through the years. Like lyrics memorized from some of Prince’s songs. Or Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds watched one too many times. Or hours wasted reading books with no
intrinsic value whatsoever.
* * *
- Pull it up by the roots
- What if you believed . . .