Not my son, no ox, no well, and not the Sabbath . . .

But still, this story in the Bible, one of the stories told by Luke, came to mind:

“One Sabbath, when he went to dine at the house of a ruler of the Pharisees, they were watching him carefully. And behold, there was a man before him who had dropsy. And Jesus responded to the lawyers and Pharisees, saying, “Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath, or not?” But they remained silent. Then he took him and healed him and sent him away. And he said to them, “Which of you, having a son or an ox that has fallen into a well on a Sabbath day, will not immediately pull him out?” And they could not reply to these things.”

I thought of it because I have made some choices that will affect my Day One practices in the morning, practices that have become routine by design. It is not my son, but it is someone’s son who needs my help in the morning. I will do it, gladly, as this is the kind of thing that turns boys into men, and will turn this man into a better one. But, he needs my help at 9 a.m., and that is when I am habitually sitting in “my” church pew preparing for an hour of focused dedication to Father and his people. I won’t be there this time on time; I will be tardy.

It is not an ox in a well, either. It will be a boy climbing a rock wall in a gym because that is the one thing he loves to do on a Sunday morning, more than going to church. That is fine with me for now, for him, because after some climbing he will grow into the rest of the things that make Sundays special. He will grow if he has some help.

And it is not the Sabbath because that ended a solid hour ago at least, and it is already Day One.

I could, I suppose, “get the ox out of the well” and then attend the second service that our church has, but that would mean missing far more than a brunch and fellowship and discussion that occurs immediately after that 9 a.m. service. And anyway, I have been asked to “make sure we have some of your music” for that brunch and the adventure that always follows it. And I am tired of missing . . .

So in the morning, I will help a boy climb into manhood, be late for church, have some music ready, and then just see whatever I can see, whatever beauty our Lord finds fit to bring.

I almost have the playlist done, and here is a sample:


Oh, and just for kicks, here’s a more complete picture (see the caption below it):

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There is this one mailbox that is set into a brick wall and I need to angle in toward it because there is an apple tree growing there too. And, today, there was a truck parked just before the apple tree, so I cut a sharp right off Jennings Avenue onto the shoulder, missing the truck by a good five centimeters, kept going under the apple tree watching my mirrors, but not worrying about the tree branches scraping the top of my truck, and then stopped at the box, pretty darn close to that brick wall, but not touching it. I imagine a sheet of paper of a sold wait could easily pass between my bumper and those bricks. Anyway, I put the mail into the box, close the lid, and saw this two cuties hanging on my mirror. The fruit of my labors . . .