Shhh, don't look but God might be here.
You and I are in the habit of writing and/or reading every morning, so I didn't want to not write, but I have a crime novel I'm supposed to be reading for a friend. So let this be a quick hello! I love you.
This morning, the sunrise was stellar. It followed a sunset that was also stellar. My phone is dead, so when I woke this morning there were no missed calls, no unread texts, no Facebook, and not even a camera to capture that pink sky as it waited calmly for its fiery orb. Sweet peace.
Somehow, in the midst of the COVID-19 surge in Massachusetts, just a few days after the Boston Globe ran 16 pages of death notices, I feel a glimmer of optimism. How can a sphere do that? It's amazing that a thing so solitary as a glowing globe 93 million miles away can so completely illuminate an interior that on the outside looks to be about a size 12 but on the inside may as well be the entire galaxy. Warmer than the warmest sunshine, softer than a sigh, deeper than the deepest ocean, wider than the sky... brighter than the brightest star that shines every night above... GET THEE HENCE, CURSED EARWORM!
I did not write those bits about the sky, ocean, or stars. They are not how I'd describe myself, but those sinister, sap-seeping words have been waiting on a shelf for decades to pounce at the appropriate moment. That's a lyric from a campfire song, Christian camp, 1979.
Like the sun, those God songs seem to have had an inordinate effect.