It is unreasonably cold here on Lookout Mountain. 39 F. It is finals week, I'm giving a final, and now catching up on reading and writing. (There's just enough wireless frequency to let me connect to the world. Connect, but don't conform?) I should be grading papers. ("I should be sleepin' 'stead of keepin' these late hours I've been keepin'...does anyone know what happened to that country boy band Emerson Drive?) Or at least doing reading for this class for next semester.
For life and breath and daily food, we give you thanks O Lord. For preserving a life which could have ended on the side of the interstate highway road this weekend. We give you thanks. For hope. We give you thanks. For the prayers of a small church. I give you thanks. Days of consequences and confusion and caring are coming, and I beseech, ask, and crave your wisdom and whatever sort of roadmap you can give us. I know you're not mapquest, I know that most times you're more inscrutable than I care for, I know that sometimes love just ain't enough. Our love breaks down at any odd time. Your love is all we need. Well, that and a good dose of country music at the crucial juncture.
And this is love. Not that I had first loved you. And this is love. That you had first loved me. And you gave up your life. One perfect sacrifice. And this is love.