(no subject)
I'm trying to do a better job of being conscious of the sacred at work. I've made regular runs to NOPD's record department this week, meaning regular waits in long lines to get police reports (I had to quote Louisiana Revised Statues, Title 44, Subsection 3 in order to get the file I needed this morning). I've started regularly packing Saint Therese's Story of A Soul in my file folder so I can read while I wait.
Maybe because its only my second week at this job, but I also think there's something to the idea that the morning commute is a sort of pilgrimage. I guess if I feel like I'm where God's called me to be, I'm responding each morning by putting down the sports page, putting on a tie, and leaving on time.
Near my house, the bus turns off Carrollton and runs towards downtown via Tulane Avenue. The route takes us past the decaying and decrepit Orleans Parish prison complex and courthouse, through the roughest part of town, and drops off just up the street from the Tulane U. Medical Center. Then I walk down Baronne, past the orange-walled Nativity school, under streetside balconies that keep the morning hidden from heat.
At noon, I head back the same way, towards Canal, and go to the Jesuit church for Mass.
The last week of adjustment to a new job and the flurry of events surrounding the hurricane anniversary have left me feeling scattered. To get into a routine of recognizing God at work has given me at least the seeds of feeling grounded. In order to work with men society wants to kill, that peace will come in handy.
***
I took a break from writing much over the summer. Learning to write about love for me was a little like learning to write in a new language; I learned the cliches first, and hopefully over time and getting to know her better, am coming to a more articulate way of conveyance. Writing about love is like writing about God, and for me, both have taken time.
I peeled the month of August off my calendar this afternoon. Twenty six days until she's here.
Maybe because its only my second week at this job, but I also think there's something to the idea that the morning commute is a sort of pilgrimage. I guess if I feel like I'm where God's called me to be, I'm responding each morning by putting down the sports page, putting on a tie, and leaving on time.
Near my house, the bus turns off Carrollton and runs towards downtown via Tulane Avenue. The route takes us past the decaying and decrepit Orleans Parish prison complex and courthouse, through the roughest part of town, and drops off just up the street from the Tulane U. Medical Center. Then I walk down Baronne, past the orange-walled Nativity school, under streetside balconies that keep the morning hidden from heat.
At noon, I head back the same way, towards Canal, and go to the Jesuit church for Mass.
The last week of adjustment to a new job and the flurry of events surrounding the hurricane anniversary have left me feeling scattered. To get into a routine of recognizing God at work has given me at least the seeds of feeling grounded. In order to work with men society wants to kill, that peace will come in handy.
***
I took a break from writing much over the summer. Learning to write about love for me was a little like learning to write in a new language; I learned the cliches first, and hopefully over time and getting to know her better, am coming to a more articulate way of conveyance. Writing about love is like writing about God, and for me, both have taken time.
I peeled the month of August off my calendar this afternoon. Twenty six days until she's here.