I wasn’t planning to use Noah as a text for this Sunday, and I probably still won’t, but what could be more appropriate when the rain just won’t. stop. falling?!?!!
I’m at the office with my dogs this morning. The poor dears are very bored. Tuesday they got a couple of good walks, but yesterday’s exercise was sparse, even paltry. My schedule was busy, and at the few moments that I was free, it was pouring. This morning I was on my way to the dog park with them, praising the fine mizzle that always makes my skin look so fresh (because we’re desperate for something to be pleased with these days), when it began to pour again. So here they are in the office, chewing on the sticks left over from my Ash Wednesday/Lent worship center. Disputing over who gets which stick is as much fun as chomping on them, as far as I can tell.
So what was it like on the Ark for Noah and Shem and Ham and Japheth, and Mrs. Noah and Mrs. Shem and Mrs. Ham and Mrs. Japheth? 40 days and 40 nights of smelling those wet animals; 40 days and 40 nights of bickering amongst themselves. Who got the worst jobs to do? Which animals were hardest to care for?
And who was in charge of hope?
Okay, maybe I’m writing my sermon about Noah after all.