there will be days like this

There will be days like this. Rainy, cold, gray the entire day.

Difficult getting motivated to go to church. The thought that, wouldn't it be just so nice to return to a warm comfortable bed, passed through my head. But it was the early service and, as my grandmother used to say, it just starts the week off better. And so, with hair still damp, no makeup, jeans, a bulky sweater and clogs on, I went to church. The house was sleeping when I left.

Maybe I should have just stayed home. The sermon topic was: marriage. And not the divine "marriage" of Jesus (the bridegroom) and the church (his bride). No just Marriage.


The church is a cavernous building. No windows in the sanctuary. Horrid, really. Very difficult to go to on sunny days.

Anne B. was milling about after church, her husband Dan sat nearby talking to people. She was telling me about a class which she plans on attending. A class for healing. "I'm a mess". She laughed, I just looked at her, "who isn't?". She agreed, but there are levels of messiness. Always good to get it cleaned up if possible. And then she looked at me, concern passing across her face, brow furrowed. "not a good message for you today." "no, not particularly", then "I have to go". And I did. Ducking my head and escaping as quickly as possible through a side door and out into the weather.

Cars can be comforting, warm cocoons. I drove my cocoon down sidestreets, through neighborhoods and arrived at Schnuck's with red-rimmed eyes and a snotty nose.

Before the current economic downturn Schnuck's was a bustling place on Sundays. This day the aisles were nearly empty and easy to navigate. I picked up a rotisserie turkey breast and a sourdough french baguette for lunch. The drive home was silent and soggy. I wanted to talk to someone but figured that he didn't have any desire to talk to me and so let the phone lay, silent.

Perhaps I should make my children go to church. My parents let me stop going to church when I was thirteen. I told them I didn't believe any of it and wanted to stop attending at twelve, but they wouldn't let me, eventually they relented. And now, I regret not attending church with the boys. But there are so many regrets and if one continues to live with and focus on the regrets then one abandons life. Learn and move on. Trust, which I believe is a learned trait, should be practiced on a daily basis.

Pulling into the drive and going in through the garage, the household was just waking. I placed the warm turkey breast and bread on the counter, started the oven heating for the pie, poured myself a drink and started dishes. Richa walked up the stairs. Fuzzy pink robe, still sleepy. I offered her a drink, light eggnog with just a schmear of bourbon. She was having a difficult time deciding what to fix for lunch. She decided on fritters, i.e. fried bread with dipping sauces. The fried bread consists of just regular slices of bread cut into quarters and dipped in a mixture of chick pea flour, milk and salt, then fried. They are warm, comforting, crisp and delicious.

We ate them while talking and watching "Dean Spanley", an Australian film. She finished up, full and returned to her room to nap.


The boys passed through the house like ghosts today. But no one was home much. Richa ended up going to the Indian store to rent a DVD, a bollywood release and I drove some food over to Lindsay, visited and held her new, precious, squirming baby. When the baby wasn't in my lap, her dog was, a pit-bull, labrador mix. She looked tired. She is a precious friend. We have unknowingly shared bits of our lives with each other. The upswings of love, the devastation of heartbreak.






"You're not one of those blokes who gives up before he can lose, are yah? are yah?" from the film Dean Spanley.