In which we discuss my day, and my temperance

I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why I don't drink more.
Tim and I have limited any alcohol consumption to the weekends (as defined by his work schedule). It seems that weeknights are when the medicinal properties would do the most good, though. Perhaps we should rethink this arrangement.

I'm in a quiet room, with Christmas lights and peaceful music. The various young people are in their respective rooms. I kind of think this will be what Heaven is like. You don't think that we will be surrounded by people and angels and commotion in Heaven, do you? That is exactly the sort of thing that brings on my longings for adult beverages. I wonder if those will be in Heaven? Only without the sin part, I suppose.

My grandfather and I had a long conversation at his hearth this afternoon. The fire was cheerily flickering away as we discussed a variety of topics including the state of health care in America, death, the dangers of expeditions to the North Pole, my Granny, parole board hearings, and the similarities between bureaucrats and icebergs.
We didn't solve a single one of the world's problems, but the problems seemed a great deal less threatening in his company. Grandpa is steady and gentle, wise and strong. His life experience lends him perspective that no one under 90 could possibly know. It's very powerful.

The hours I spent with Grandpa this afternoon were a much needed reprieve from the hullabaloo of the past few days. Weeks? We've been caroming through December with all the balance of a sailor on shore-leave. Allura moved in, Faline moved back home, three of my kids celebrated birthdays, my husband had his birthday too, we've had out-of-town house guests, and a 20-year-bible-study reunion. And we are only three weeks into December. I've gained weight, lost my temper, grown weary, and shrunk our bank account. But, the tree is beautiful, the shopping is done, the kids are safe and the year is drawing to a close.

If I need a drink, it's because I covet the specialness of the exhale that is the first glass of wine. Yet, here I am. Norah Jones is singing softly, and I am blogging. It's maybe better than a chardonnay.