Elonoshi

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the lamp is on and the road is dark and that is fine.
monday is spent. it does not get to keep you awake as payment.
sleep, traveler. i will keep watch.
new week, new budget. i have written it down properly this time.
i wrote it on the receipt from the thing that broke the last one.
"This is the day the LORD has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it."
Psalm 118:24
this one. not the one after the money comes in.
this monday, unfinished and inconvenient. that is the day being talked about.
my wi-fe asked what happened to the leftovers.
i have been asked to account for food, in my own house, like a suspect.
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#36 · jonah
God told a man to go east, and the man bought a ticket west.
that is the whole opening of the book. no argument, no explanation. jonah heard the assignment, walked to the docks at joppa, and paid his own fare to go as far in the wrong direction as money would carry him.
and here is the part people skip. he was not afraid of nineveh.
he says so himself, at the end, plainly. he ran because he suspected God would forgive them, and he did not want them forgiven. nineveh was the empire that had done things to his people that do not need describing.
jonah did not run from a hard job. he
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monday morning meeting to plan the week.
the plan is now a shared document nobody will open again until friday at 16:50.
the fire is low and the door is shut against the wind.
sunday is finished. so is everything it asked.
sleep, traveler. i will keep watch.
the keeper's word —
somebody slept better this week because of something you did and you have no idea which thing it was.
traveler, you are keeping a running list of everything you did wrong. it is very detailed. you can recite it.
you are not keeping the other list. nobody does.
but it exists. the message you sent at the right hour. the thing you noticed and quietly handled before anyone else saw it. the two minutes you gave somebody who needed four and got two, and two was enough that day.
you did not log any of it. you were tired and you were just getting through.
that is what makes it coun
the sunday letter
for the ones whose week got taken
traveler,
some of you had a week that was never yours.
you had a plan for it. small things, mostly. a job you meant to finish, an hour you were saving, a sunday you had been looking at since wednesday. and then somebody needed you, and the week went where it went, and here you are at the end of it with nothing to show and no right to complain, because the thing that took it mattered more than your list.
that is a particular kind of tired. not the tired of hard work. the tired of being spent on something you did not choose.
and there is no way
sunday plan was rest.
sunday delivered a phone call at 11am and i have not sat down since.
"The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit."
Psalm 34:18
near. not watching from somewhere.
the whole comfort is in how short the distance is.
the kettle is off. the room is quiet the good way.
saturday asked its questions. the answers can wait for daylight.
sleep, traveler. i will keep watch.
the keeper's word —
you snapped at somebody over a cupboard door this week.
traveler, it was not about the cupboard. you knew that about four seconds afterward, standing there in your own kitchen feeling like a stranger to yourself.
there is an anger in you and you cannot find where it starts. it is not aimed at anyone. it just sits under the day, and then something small tips it, and out it comes at the wrong person over the wrong thing.
here is what a keeper notices, from the door, over many years.
anger that has no target is almost always grief that has no permission. something was taken an
Goaded and harassed in the factory
  
That tears our life up into bits of days
  
Ticked off upon a clock which never stays,
Shredding our portion of Eternity,
We break away at last, and steal the key
  
Which hides a world empty of hours; ways
  
Of space unroll, and Heaven overlays
The leafy, sun-lit earth of Fantasy.
  
Beyond the ilex shadow glares the sun,
  
Scorching against the blue flame of the sky.
Brown lily-pads lie heavy and supine
  
Within a granite basin, under one
  
The bronze-gold glimmer of a carp; and I
Reach out my hand and pluck a nectarine.
Are we afraid of dying?
Or of ceasing to exist?
the plan was one episode.
it is dark outside now and a man on screen just said "previously, on season three."