This picture has nothing to do with my post, except that I am a little proud of myself for spitting coffee onto a book.  That feat was an accomplishment, despite the fact that I didn't know I was being watched while performing this little assignment until I heard my husband and daughter laughing at me.

I am making a wreck out of Sabbath.  I am bad at it.  Well, I am good at parts of it.  I like saying to myself and to my family, "Today is my Sabbath.  I cannot cook or pick up after anyone or touch that mountain of clothes in the laundry basket."  But other than that, I am not doing Sabbath well.  Last week's Sabbath was particularly horrendous.  I went to church, but that's as close as my Sabbath got me to God.  I did not do even one of the daily offices.  I do not even know that I said one word to God the whole day.  I did nothing on Sunday, true, and I spent nearly the whole day reading, but I may or may not have spent the day finishing a book about a girl who bears the daughter's name of the last czar of Russia, but is not, in fact, even remotely about Russian history.  (Do I dare even admit that I have read that book, especially since I spent my Sabbath reading that book?  Matt asked me at one point in the day what I was reading. I told him the Bible.  He got up and moved away from me.  I asked him where he was going.  He said that any moment God was going to strike me with lightning.)

So I suck at Sabbath. 

I am not reading my books about the Sabbath, either.  I am reading books about creativity.  And rather compelling books about girl who is the namesake of a long-dead czar's daughter.  And another book about a girl who works at a used bookstore.  And to perhaps raise me up from your estimation of me which has now plummeted into the mires of lechery, I feel like I should tell you that I lust after her and her life surrounded by dusty books much than I do about that other girl and her life with Mr. _ _ _ _ (you know, the color you get when you mix black and white). 

In the midst of all this muddled confusion about Sabbath is a muddled confusion about life in general.  And sometimes, my confusion gets mixed up with despair. 

I had a conversation with Matt this week that began, "I hate to have hope, but..."

And then I stopped. 

And we both laughed. 

But it wasn't really funny.

I hate to have hope, but...

...but, I must hope. 

I must hope, even as I sit on my side porch this afternoon awash in melancholy. 

What is wrong with me?

I'm OK, really, I feel like I must rush to tell you.

I am fine.

I am fine.

When you see me, I will be smiling, of course.

And my smile will be mostly genuine.

How did this blog post go this direction?  I didn't mean for it to.

Because I am fine.

I really am.

I hate to have hope, but...