Distractions

One of the truly puzzling questions of modern culture was brought up in the morning paper the other day by Darby Conley in the comics section, one of the two sections of the paper that can still be trusted, the other being the box scores in baseball season.  It was this:  who exactly is it that dresses Dracula?  I  mean, think about it.  He really is remarkably well turned out for someone who can't use a mirror.  And that doesn't even reach the issue of how his shirts remain impeccable despite his living, for want of a better word, in a half millennium old burial chamber with all the attendant half millennium old dirt, mold, and cobwebs.

For those - if any - who have noted my absence:

The Inn has been rather neglected these past few weeks, hasn't it.  But I have a legitimate excuse this time.  No, honestly!  Mary had knee-replacement surgery on the 4th of January and I have either been at the hospital keeping her company and learning how to help with the physical therapy or, now that she's home, actually helping with the said physical therapy, keeping track of the various medication schedules - mostly not a problem, except the one at 3:00 a.m. - and generally playing valet so that she doesn't get up and try to do things she shouldn't.  There wasn't a lot of time left for non-essentials, which, alas, The Inn is.

And she's doing rather well, thank you for asking.  Better in fact than most others we've known who've had the surgery.  Not ready for any three-beat pas de basque just yet.  But progressing nicely.

If you're thinking of this procedure for yourself, be forewarned.  As good as the end result will be, the first part of the recovery period is murderously painful.  Everyone in Mary's ward had had this operation and everyone hurt.   A lot.

Septuagesima

One of the hymns this morning:

God of grace and God of glory,
On thy people pour thy power;
Crown thine ancient Church's story:
Bring her bud to glorious flower.
  Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
  For the living of these days.
  For the living of these days. 

Lo! the hosts of evil round us
Scorn thy Christ, assail his ways!
From the fears that long have bound us
Free our hearts to faith and praise:
  Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
  For the living of these days.
  For the living of these days. 

Cure thy children's warring madness,
Bend our pride to thy control;
Shame our wanton, selfish gladness,
Rich in things and poor in soul.
  Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
  Lest we miss thy kingdom's goal.
  Lest we miss thy kingdom's goal.

It didn't really have much to do with Septuagesima but those seemed like particularly worthy aspirations for the year of Our Lord 2016.  And it didn't hurt at all that it's sung to the tune Cym Rhondda, one of my very favourite hymn tunes.  You can find a knock-out version of the tune here at the 22.30 mark.  It's sung in Welsh and, FWIW, the Welsh lyrics don't have anything whatsoever to do with the lyrics given above.

If you're annoyed about the misleading headline and really want to read about Septuagesima, try Fr Hunwicke's article here.  As always, well-worth a read.

How to Get a Seal Out of Your Monastery

So now you can't see you never learned anything useful from The Inn.