The Last Hurrah before Lent

I suppose that's what you could call Transfiguration Sunday, if you wanted to.  Pull out all the stops, sing your heart out, go up on that there mountain and see visions.  Have a loud organ and a good band and some glory, too.  And you can also have a feast, and a party, with too much food and a lot of noise, but that is optional.

So, it was a pretty productive Saturday, starting with the Gospel of John, chapter 8, at 8:00 a.m. (there was a slight digression to check with the man who was reading on his Kindle).  At church, I tried to tie up some loose ends so that we could take a brief break after church tomorrow.  Sent out mail, email, copying, boring stuff like that.  Also visited two people in the hospital, where I squeezed a hand in intensive care, and had a pre-baptism meeting with the cutest baby ever.  Peeked in on the small group who were diligently writing a mission statement for our congregation.

When I got home, we went out to the yarn store (as I call it, "I would like to go to the yarn store today").  I wanted to get some advice on the sweater I'm attempting and I also just wanted to look at the yarn:  all the colors, the textures, the possibilities.  Luckily, I do not have to rip out what I have already started.

Then we went in search of food.  It was mid-afternoon already and we found ourselves in a little Italian deli, eating pasta and sausage and a stromboli.  We looked up at the window advertisement, which read, "Goodbye to meat."  -- and then, underneath, "Carnivale."  Never thought of that before.

The last hurrah before Lent.

Tonight I'm knitting, and watching Pretty woman, and eating popcorn and doing other low-key things.  I suppose I should also be washing nylons, and washing dishes and doing some general straightening. The other day I did a little more book-buying than usual (the last hurrah before Lent?).  I could also be paging through my new acquisitions, too.  But I'm not.  I'm spending the last hurrah before Lent knitting, watching a movie, eating popcorn.

It's far away from the mountain and the visions, far away from the moment when suddenly, eveything makes sense, the fog clears, and the path you must take is clear.  It's far away from the singing angels and the voice of God, but somehow, the voice of God, is here, too, only softer, like a whisper, and I have to pay attention. 

It's the last hurrah before Lent, before the ashes on our foreheads, before the time of darkness, before the fast, before we come down the mountain, if we were ever on one. 

Yes, I believe there was a mountain, even if we don't remember.  There was that day when we were first called beloved children, when we were sealed with the Holy Spirit, marked by the cross.  And God spoke into our ear, and we saw the candle light flicker, and the saints stood around us that day.