Sunday Evening

"May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy. Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves." — Psalm 126:5-6

It is Sunday evening and I am not going to be able to write this letter properly.

Some weeks I sit down here and lay the days out in order and it comes together. This week I have been sitting in this chair for twenty minutes and the days will not go in order, so I am going to give them to you the way they are.

Monday was two birthdays, sixteen and eight, one going and one coming. Tuesday I wore a jacket for the first time since May and Dan called and would not talk about his knee. Wednesday I counted eleven green tomatoes that are not going to make it and decided to leave them on anyway. Thursday Hannah did not call back and I decided not to make it mean anything, which took some doing. Friday I sat with a psalm about old trees still being full of sap and got up out of my chair in two motions while I was thinking about it. Saturday I was awake at three and did not mind.

And this morning the classroom went back into session and the circle was full.

I am going to leave it there. Not because anything is wrong. Something happened this morning that was good, and it is mine for a few more days before it is anything else, and I have learned that if I put a thing into words too quickly I decide what it means before it has finished telling me.

The psalm tonight is the one about going out weeping and carrying the seed anyway. I have always read that as a promise about the end of the story. Tonight I read it as a description of the walk. You go out. You are crying. You carry the seed regardless. Whether you come back with sheaves is not the part you are responsible for.

I have carried a good deal of seed out into a good many fields in seventy-seven years and I have not seen most of what came up.

I saw a little of it this morning.

The house is quiet and the jacket is on the hook by the door and I will need it again tomorrow. September is doing what September does.

Until next Sunday.