This week is called Holy.

What does that even mean?

I seem to be surprised by holiness almost every day now that I have the time to open my eyes and heart to deliberately and consciously see it.

My dear fried Barb was scheduled to have major surgery last week, but her wise anesthesiologist ruled that out at the last minute and went to bat against the eager surgeon to cancel it.  It shouldn’t be significant that the anesthesiologist is a woman and the surgeon is a god-guy.  But it does.  That kind of courage is holy.

So, yesterday, Barb and I had a beautiful drive through the valley down to a nursery out in the country near Corvallis so she could buy a bunch of plants for her garden. We saw fat sheep grazing in fields that were blindingly green during the sun breaks, in-between showers.  Springtime. Holy.

Barb didn’t find much on her very explicit shopping list. Being me, I had no list and was just following  Barb around when I serendipitously (Barb’s word) stumbled on a camellia bush that I had been looking for for years.

Giant single white blooms.  We clipped this one off and carefully brought it home in Barb’s hand.

John will find a place for it under the giant redwood.  Holy.

This morning, I can see the colors of the Belgian Flag on everything from the Eiffel Tower to Facebook posts. Holy.

And our own flying everywhere at half mast.

This afternoon, St. P.’s will gather for the funeral of the son of a dear friend.  So wrong for a parent to out-live a child.  All of us who have held our newborn babes can feel the grief of losing one in the prime of life.

Ahh. All this brings even unbelievers to the foot of the cross where the story tells us his mother wept.  Holy.

As for me, I will be found in the church kitchen helping to prepare for the funeral reception.  For me, the most sacred place at church has always been the kitchen where we Marthas can always be found cooking, serving, washing up.  This is where, sharing each others griefs and joys, our conversations are more powerful and life-changing than any sermon ever preached.  Holy.

Happens every spring.  Every single spring.  And every spring.  Every single spring.  It works for me.

Unless they’re on the backs of checks, do these things really matter?  Except possibly negatively.  Does Sarah Palin help The Donald?

Oops.  I think that’s Tina Fey

Or the Governor of New Jersey?

Or the former neurosurgeon?

Oops!  My mistake again.

What in god’s name did he promise them?  Maybe Sarah could be Fish and Game Warden in Denali National Park.  Maybe Chris could be in charge of toll booths across the Hudson.  And Ben?  Well, you know, when you go all in for brain surgery, you’re probably not good at much else.

Of course,  I am totally offended by cheap shots at gay folks on so many levels.  But Ben?  Can any body that gay be straight? Seriously?  Maybe Trump promised him a place on the Supreme Court.  With liberty and justice for all.

But, today, at last, there is good news on the endorsement front.  Danny  came out for Bernie:

I’m in.

There are so many things I love about being the age I am.

I love being able to say “no” when I don’t want to do something.  I love having the time to say “yes” when I do want to do something.

Sure.  Everyone in my age group has aches and pains, and, for the most part, I really don’t want to hear about it.  Once you allow your conversation to dig in there, it becomes a pit you can’t get out of to talk about more meaningful things — our gardens, our dogs, the sun breaks, new books, old books we read so long ago they are new again, beautiful music, hysterically funny and trite things — like how much hair spray does Donald Trump have to use.

I often hear people in my decade complaining about not only their aches and pains but also about the things they cannot do.  Jeeze!  Do you not remember when you couldn’t do anything you wanted to do because other people had complete control of your life?  Parents, teachers, husbands, the needs of children?

So now you cannot down-hill ski?  All righty then.  Go sky diving.   You cannot kayak the white water?  Have you noticed how wonderful it is to paddle around on flat water watching  a pair of eagles working on their nest?

You say you now forget things.  Do you not remember studying hard for an exam and drawing a blank when you were sitting for it?

Do you not remember menstrual cramps and childbirth?  Have you forgotten your first broken heart.  Talk about aches and pains!  Nothing hurts like that. Nothing.

You are lonely?  Have you forgotten knowing for sure you were the only college freshman sitting in a dorm room who didn’t have a date on Saturday night?  Now that’s lonely.

Now, how sweet is it to sit in your favorite chair with a cat on your lap and a dog at your feet, a cup of tea or a glass of wine, a book or a a remote control (that you actually get to hold yourself), maybe eating something “bad” for you because you no longer have to be setting a good example for anyone.

I prefer to live in the moment and I try never to think back on the worst days of my life, but sometimes I do, just to remind myself how good life can be.

Happy Birthday to me.