A couple of weeks ago, we almost went to church for the first time in months, but Karen's tubing came apart, and there was blood everywhere, and by the time we got everything back together, the moment had passed. The dogs kept sniffing the bloody nightgown, and then eying us, as if they were they thinking, "Mmmm, that smells delicious, and there's probably more inside those two."
Last week was "Spring Forward, Miss Church," week. This morning, though, we made it, and it was a revelation, if you don't mind that little bit of churchy vocab. First there was a 15 minute skit, that included a flashback, but then, according to the pastor, the largest proportion of the Psalms is lamentations, which he defined as complaints. So, he's saying that this blog isn't just a series of disjointed grumbling, but an actual cri du coeur, a lament, if you will.
He put the structure of a lamentation on the overhead, and then invited the congregation to write their own with the paper he'd provided. We had to leave before we could do that. I don't want to complain, but Karen's pain was out of control. I don't want to complain, I want to lament.