'He still moves stones.'
The flyer caught my eye and it seemed silly to me, the image that came into my mind. Jesus Christ, crouched down pushing little piles of gravel around like a kid on a sidewalk. I walked away from my register a bit to read the smaller print.
'Experience the power of Easter'.
Oh. Duh, right...big stone....grave. I'd forgotten about Easter coming. I don't see how! Surrounded by pastel candies and big eared chocolate bunnies stacked next to the convection crosses in the store with the flyer about stones. I must be working on forgetting.
And I take a breath and muse on my contemplations of why I think too much.
And the boulder I'm pushing along with me through the evening prompts questions of concern from working friends. I don't seem myself. No, I'm a bit low tonight...rock perched on my shoulders...slowing me down a bit.
The huge chunk of mountain-side chained to my waist drags my steps as I think and pray of my fear, misery, and devastating circumstances.
The depressed and hopeless countenance I'm sporting walks with me briefly past the newspaper rack. Habit reads the headlines as my feet continue to pass by.
But my feet force a stop and the unmanageable weight on my shoulders is liquefied to a greasy black shower of self consuming guilt. Horror rereads the title.
'Tot's death deemed an accident'.
Oh dear God!
Once again, you reveal my mountains to be nothing but pebbles.