I’m sitting at the kitchen table, which is covered with newspapers, magazines, a stationery box, several of Lucy’s books, one of mine, a stuffed poodle in a pocketbook (not mine), a tiny stuffed lamb bearing the marks of having been mouthed by Doggie Molly, some mail I should probably read, an empty box of tissues, a plastic bag full of apples casually tossed into the fruitbowl, a three-quarters eaten bowl of oatmeal, a half-drunk cup of coffee, a nearly finished glass of milk, an empty juice glass and a plate that used to hold toast. I suppose I could be clearing the table, and really I should be at the office, but the Little Princess is having a bout of G-I trouble and we are waiting to hear from the Pediatric Gastroenterologist about having a prescription filled.
Meanwhile, down at the church, the furnace isn’t working. I sigh. And I sigh again. It’s one of those days I wish I did live in the parsonage, right across the driveway.
A question for reflection: is it any wonder that I feel eager to get to work when everyone there appreciates what I do and some of the people actually clean up after themselves?