sluggards, writers, and pickers

I keep joking that Youtube is the epitome of the proverb, “the sluggard plunges his hand into the dish but is too lazy to even bring it up to his mouth.”
We keep getting these crazy ideas about what we can do on Honey Creek–bees, chickens, no-till gardens, saw mills (thanks, youtube)–and then we find ourselves on a sunny Sunday afternoon sprawled on the couch, watching football and eating cake.

It’s not such a bad thing when your team loses, I guess, if you need a good nudge in the direction of getting something done.

Joe suggested I write a book on working from home, and I gave him a blank stare.
“Okay,” I said.
I’m pretty sure I can’t spice up the sitting-at-the-kitchen-table-on-zoom-meetings life. It doesn’t even make for a single blog post.
This writing advice comes from a man who asked me this weekend, “How do people actually read your blog? Is it, like, public?”
I’ve been writing a blog for fourteen years, dear. (A prophet is indeed not welcome in his own hometown.)

We have a dobro player on our hands. We do church at home with our family and typically pick a few hymns out to sing along with guitar, mandolin, and FC’s drum. Jubal would almost prefer to not play the guitar at all anymore, which is fine, but I don’t want to sing Nothing But the Blood of Jesus along to the sliding weeeeee-arrrrrrrrrrr-owwwww wail of a dobro. Jerry Douglas himself advises to not play alongside voices–the dobro being its own vocal instrument. He says to echo the sentiments of the singer. All I’m saying is it is kind of distracting to have a show-off instrument in the band when we’re all trying to sing about Jesus.

So Jubal pulled out the guitar and we tested to see if he still has calluses on his left hand fingertips. Good news, he does.

We are in an unimaginable spot in life where we can all sit still at the kitchen table and study the Bible and have kids who can accompany our hymn-singing. I am telling you, all my prayers I half-heartedly tossed up to Heaven many years ago are being answered. I named my firstborn Jubal because I couldn’t think of anything cooler, never thinking he might be a literal Jubal, a born musician. And look at him now.

Even those prayers I hardly dared to whisper, like school-girl wishes–I always wanted to live near my dad again and never thought my kids would get to know him like I knew him…And now we live where Pop has a little home five minutes down the road. Our own personal luthier–we can call him up to see if he has anything that’ll work as a dobro strap and sure enough, he has the leather and tooling punch.

Isn’t it great when God meets us halfway–and sometimes, whole-way.

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