On the Ground

I am here.

The here on the way to there.

The jet-birds flew far and fast. The weather is fair and cold. My shoes are wet, but I deserve it. Not wet through. And crumbs of brown bread fall on my computer.

I have devoured Michael O'Brien's The Island of the World en route. I do not regret it, but I regret it. I can never ride the same currents in the same way again, and they were wonderful. But there are always new currents to ride. He is a strange one. But it is a good tale.

Now I am at Budapest again - the hotel, not the city. And it is lunchtime - or early dinner - or whatever you call the last meal of a day that will end up being about twenty-eight hours long, eaten at 15:30 local time.

My shoes are wet because of walking. As soon as I put my bags in my room. To Sveta Sofia. By a long cut. Then to the dm for a shaver, and Billa for dinner: two sausages, apple, cucumber, mlyako, and the aforesaid bread. Time to dry the shoes a bit, then go back for vespers at Sv. Sofia at 5pm.

And we now have a Bulgarian Molitvenik. I will be combing it for good things for "Owen". So far I've found the Lord's Prayer and the Trisagion. I still have malka balgarski.

Please pray that I would get rest, that "Owen" and I would hit it off tomorrow, for Mama and the kiddos in the States, and for God's mercy through the hands of His people upon orphans and widows, of whom there are many in the world now.


Gospodi, pomiloyi - Lord, have mercy!
In Christ,
Papa