October 28, 2020

Hurricane Zeta pouring itself against the roof. 

The All Saints Evensong will be beautiful, I think, and I’m glad to be singing again. I don’t think my voice got rusty, though someone else would be a better judge of that. It sounds OK to me in that unwonted emptiness.  Jonathan caught me on the church lawn and poured out the news of his wife’s advanced and apparently hopeless cancer. What on earth does one say? I hope some service was done by merely listening. One prays, but then asks what is the nature of intercessory prayer. Does God not now she has cancer? Has God not already taken thought for it? One does what one can, hoping good intentions make stupid gestures look less stupid. Wandered about in Biltmore Village, hoping to raise my footstep count. Looked through the window’s of John’s stores in commemoration.