Apart from God every activity is merely a passing whiff of insignificance. ~Alfred North Whitehead
This year started so quietly, creeping in as we slept. Well, it did creep in as we slept. And then it wasn’t so quiet. Just after midnight, Papa trooped into our room, shining a flashlight, saying, “Happy New Year! Is your window rattling? Did you hear fireworks? Something is terribly noisy.” I hadn’t heard it, but I sat up and groggily tried to give him many returns. Lydia mumbled something and rolled over.
At breakfast the next morning, Lydia commented, “Last night I dreamed that Papa came into our room with a gun and a flashlight.”
Church this morning was a quiet affair with only Nick and Kirby gathered around our tiny dining room table. I guess tiny is only in comparison to the monstrous slab that we sold just before Christmas.
Two days in, and all is well. Or quiet, at least.
I remember the first New Year after moving to Arkansas. I looked back and thought, “Wow. That was the hardest three months of my life. Scratch that. That three months was harder than the rest of my life.”
That might as well have been a century ago.
Excuse me for a moment while I get nostalgic and misty-eyed.
In fact, January of last year feels like a life-time ago.
Last year started out so quietly, so peacefully—even more so than this year. And then, it exploded. And nearly all of it is a blank page in the annals of my past. Such irretrievable loss. It leaves me no visible excuse for my serious case of insanity.
Okay. I’m done.