O Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of the eternal Father,
Thou hast said, “Without me you can do nothing.” In faith I embrace Thy
words, O Lord, and bow before Thy goodness. Help me to complete the work
I am about to begin for Thine own glory: in the Name of the Father, and
of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
AFTER ANY WORK:
Thou, O Christ, art Thyself the fulfillment of all good things! Fill my soul with joy and gladness, and save me, for Thou art all merciful.
It’s like Kirby’s always saying: “We play to a standard”
It doesn’t matter what the task, event, or situation occurs with me, I have to complete it to my standard, which in my experience is higher that most people. People let it be known that they don’t care. Explicitly, a lot, but implicitly most.
No one ever told me
that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is
like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same
restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.
At other times it
feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of
invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in
what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so
uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments
when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not
to me.
There are moments, most unexpectedly, when something
inside me tries to assure me that I don’t really mind so much, not so
very much, after all. Love is not the whole of a man’s life. I was happy
before I ever met H. I’ve plenty of what are called ‘resources.’ People
get over these things. Come, I shan’t do so badly. One is ashamed to
listen to this voice but it seems for a little to be making out a good
case. Then comes a sudden jab of red-hot memory and all this
‘commonsense’ vanishes like an ant in the mouth of a furnace.