A Good Day

Good, peaceful days prove more difficult for me to write about than bad days. The absence of conflict and aggravation does not generate dramatic prose.

Friday started with a visit to Dr. Downey. A nurse injured the radial nerve in his right hand; it’s numb and bothers him. And he told Ginny and me about his medical trip to Africa where each year he volunteers help in an orphanage.

I’m ok for the shape I’m in.

The doctor froze a few cancers on my arms and gave me some grease to rub on my hip for the always-with-me pain. It that stuff does not help, the next step is an MRI.

Afterwards Ginny and I carried library books up to Dave’s Diner where we munched fries and read our murder mysteries as we sat at a window booth watching light rain fall.

Back home, we continued to read in our backyard never speaking except to point out a flock of purple finch or some other bird at the big feeder.

True love enables you to sit in silence, reading, doing your own thing, making no demands, asking nothing—just being together.

Sometimes that state carries over into my devotions. When I’m just with the Lord, aware of His presence but not exactly praying nor worshiping nor singing nor even thinking much about it. Just relaxing together.

Good, the best, is not always dramatic.