Letters of Life


I am so glad that this is the first Saturday in, oh, at least a string of 12 Saturdays, where I don’t have to go into the clinic. Not that I mind being a clinic assistant for half a day, washing instruments, registering patients, dispensing medication (Is Flumicil a mucolytic agent (a phlegm thinner)? Does the patient know how to use the nasal spray? Do *I* know how to use it?), or holding down a screaming and writhing 4-year-old on the treatment chair while the gentle steady hands of the surgeon manipulates the ear vacuum to siphon out the ear wax.

Instead, I can sit at my desk by the glass doors which open to the balcony, now bathed in morning sunlight, and hear the trills and whistles of birds in the trees outside, feel the cool morning air on my skin, and not feel pressed to do anything yet for the next hour, except to think and to write.

Last night, a bunch of us were hanging around after practicing the praise and worship songs for Sunday. Three youths were trying out the rhythm of an original piece, and I sat there, listening, passing the odd comment here and there, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. It felt momentous because it took a coon’s age to get to this point.

Again, the small and lovely things.

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