HALF BAKED

Oh the rain. The rain ... the rain... the rain.

My ideas turn slippery and slide along the squishy streets leading no where. Into the big trenches, they creep along below most people's notice. If I was a boot, I'd step right into the middle of that puddle of prose and, "SPLASH!"

Thoughts go every which way — maybe they will  leave a mark on someone else's mind.

I spend more time in the kitchen then I would when the sun shines. My family consumes bread fresh from the oven; recipes, which require more time than I usually give. The desserts are endless.

The rain continues, but my cooking streak runs dry.

I attend high mass. I think, "What theatre!" as I watch the archbishop's props come and go throughout the service. He has special detail ushers to place and then replace his mitre —his folding high hat; his impressive staff.

I don't feel very spiritual here.

The archbishop seems bored, or maybe just tired. I think he nodded off after communion. I wonder if he is as weary of his job as I am of this rain.

(Is it a sin to think that?)

(Can a devine calling be considered a job? I think, "yes.")

Will God tire of this rain?