And the living is eeeeeeeeeeeeea-say.
Honestly, though. I woke up yesterday and turned on the song “In the Good Old Summertime” right away.
Sundays, man. Sundays in the summer. And mass was perfect. It was just everything. Every, every, everything. Father Patrick was on fire, and the band was beautiful, and there I was, trying to figure out to do with my tears/ snot. (Mentally like, “Dress hem? Can I pull it off?”).
(Also, note: our Holy Homework is to (1) Pray (especially adoration!) (2) Serve in love and (3) Stay determined. Fix thine eyes like flint on the cross. (Okay, so the last line was mine. Father Patrick doesn’t talk like that).)
Afterwards I went for a walk with Juli-YEAH (anyone who wants to speak Holy-Spirit-truth into the never-ending dream that is “move into the city,” please, start talking) and it was perfect.
Then I drove to meet my sibs for breakfast and I thought, as I stepped out of the car in my green, green sundress, and the humidity hit me like a wall, “Man. I love this day. I could live it forever.”