In Which Your Humble Blogger sits on the ground and tells sad tales of the deaths of kings, and then has to have some help standing up again.
In Which Your Humble Blogger hides himself for three days, or maybe longer.
In Which the Angel of the Lord is standing by for your calls.
In Which the wife of Manoah said unto him: that’s nice, dear.
In Which my own preference is to have mercy on the children of whoredom, because, you know, mercy is good, right?
In Which Your Humble Blogger spreadeth out his roots by the river, and has a little nap.
In Which Your Humble Blogger waits for Elijah to come, kinda hoping he doesn’t make it this year.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is boiled and eaten, but it’s only a bit part, really, and will probably be left on the cutting room floor.
In Which Your Humble Blogger like the image of the evil impulse as the yeast in our dough, which puffs us up and makes us tasty.
In Which Your Humble Blogger reconciles the house.