I wrote this a couple Sunday mornings ago, but didn’t share it with anyone. Maybe someone could use it today:

It is raining very hard this morning. Thunder and lightening are punctuating a dark, dark sky and I have been up for hours. I tried to go back to sleep by watching an old movie on Turner Broadcasting, the name of which I’ve already forgotten and will never remember again, but it was about a young Nazi who was brought to an American home during the War as an exchange student and who set about to disrupt the family, and who was foiled in his attempts to do so through the kindness of a Jewish woman (of course) and I’ve decided that aside from “Casablanca,” the dialogue of 1940s movies is always so stilted, formal, and utterly lacking in passion that I will from this day forward always choose to watch something else, anything else. It’s hard to realize what an effective propaganda tool the movies were during the War.

And I have a bit of a stomach ache, a bit of a headache, and while I was lying on the couch trying to sleep, my neck became sore.

Poor me. And church starts in just a few hours and after church we must drive two hours to Dallas for three days of Church Conference meetings.

But:

“When you find you can go neither backward or forward, when you discover that you are no longer able to stand, sit or lie down, when your children have died of malnutrition and your aged parents have been sent to the poorhouse or the gas chamber, when you realize that you can neither write nor not write, when you are convinced that all the exits are blocked, either you take to believing in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird. The miracle is that the honey is always there, right under your nose, only you were too busy searching elsewhere to realize it. The worst is not death but being blind, blind to the fact that everything about life is in the nature of the miraculous.”

Henry Miller, Stand Still Like the Hummingbird