I could thank the Puritans for my luxuries, with their clean, industrious ways. I’m sure I can thank the Lord, whose mercies are new every morning—even in Nepal. I just want to remember how rich I am.
I wouldn’t say I have necessarily rediscovered the joy of handwriting, but it is a pleasant experience, experimenting with the different feel of different leads.
By 3 Jesus is dead, having spoken only seven times. The sky turns black, there is an earthquake, rocks split into, dead people come out of their graves, only to die once more. And we call this Good Friday.