HERE AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES it is a chilly overcast morning. The antique barometer on the wall says the pressure is immense. As always. But the chickadees sing merrily, which is the only way they know how to sing. The blue jays are obstreperous. As always. The Caretakers temporarily ran out of the $12-an-ounce suet, and the woodpeckers complain mightily. And tap on the logs and roof of the cabin as if to say, “Hey—you in there! Yes, you! You know it’s cold out here? Where’s the suet? Hey! HEY!! Come on, get moving—the day’s a-wasting!”… And indeed it is. And our congregation, although generally easygoing and patient (except for the red squirrels) does have its expectations. Which we attempt to meet. So, Fellowship Hall is buzzing, and Sparky the Cardinal has sung his Sunday morning solo, to much admiration, and the Three Crows have announced the church bulletin, and all is generally well. Except for the suet. We wish you Good Sabbath, at whatever chapel or cathedral or Little Brown Church from which you greet the universe on this day.