AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES we awaken to another morning in which the world is assailed by fools, idiots, and nincompoops. But a dawn shower passed through and drenched the bonsais, and now they smile in the early light. The churchyard and surroundings are washed clean. Blue jays gossip in the pines. Crows call in the distance. A heron drifts silently by. The old green-robed deacons raise their arms toward heaven, adding a touch of timeless dignity.
Chipmunks chip and scurry about the deck, and hummingbirds buzz past on their rounds. But largely it is quiet. A respite from noise and commotion and idiocy, as church should be. If it’s the right kind of church.
Wishing you Good Sabbath wherever you may be, near some trees perhaps—tall ones or small ones. (Oh. The Parson is traveling tomorrow so this will suffice as our Sunday morning bulletin!)