Tinsel on the Eiffel Tower. Old trees shaped to fit the side walks and paths, intertwined with street lights and ornate fences. Flashing lights and yellow lamps.
Old movies are wonderful. Simple plots, gorgeous gowns, music and black and white. History was in black and white and shades of grey.
The residence is named something something Palaise. Opposite the Luxembourg Gardens. Arriving in Paris at night is very pretty. Little crashing noises here and there with old and new jostling for space. Three doors and codes and stairs and winding, narrow corridors into a rooms not changed for decades. Sort of old. A bit not romantic or glam. Not a palace or much to do with palaces. Not a problem when your eyes are shut tight with overdue sleep. A roof right near the gardens.
Korean care and clean and neat is still on my mind. The ladies in front of us in the queue a link from yesterday. She had on a Parisian hat perched at a rakish angle, shirt and hot pink platform sneakers. The girl wore shorts, neat and high, short shorts and orange. Neat and trim. They all were. Turned her head. Middle aged, not a girl.
My mother told me a story. A great kerfuffle at the club. A lady as old as me wore a skort to bowls. Very very short. You know the thing. A blend of shorts and skirt. Bad bending look for bowls. There were many conversations and rules and etiquette opinions on the skort. And she is as old as me. And no model. Apparently.
Richard watched a program on storage on the plane. How digital storage is a limited thing. Stone lasts for thousands of years, paper a thousand maybe and digital not long. It is a problem. There are people working on solutions. So much data. So may selfies to keep forever. Our quest for immortality. Apparently storing in the cloud is a better thing. It is not corrupted by dust. The real thing made by dust but this cloud longer lasting.
All these things will pass. It will all go. What of immortality. What pics and vids will my great grandchildren see of me? How will they know what I look like? A bust in stone? How will the new embrace the old and how will we grow old? Skorts to keep youth close? Never change the room behind the wooden doors and call it something palace like?
Sort of does the mind in and lets in fear.
Maybe the cloud is the answer. The sky. Speak to the sky. The one who made the sky and the clouds and us for Himself. It is for Him we are made. If immortality is what we want, the lasting and everlasting knowing this all will pass, trust the One who made us to last, with Him, for Him, through the one who spoke all into creation.
Jesus, amen.
Old movies are wonderful. Simple plots, gorgeous gowns, music and black and white. History was in black and white and shades of grey.
The residence is named something something Palaise. Opposite the Luxembourg Gardens. Arriving in Paris at night is very pretty. Little crashing noises here and there with old and new jostling for space. Three doors and codes and stairs and winding, narrow corridors into a rooms not changed for decades. Sort of old. A bit not romantic or glam. Not a palace or much to do with palaces. Not a problem when your eyes are shut tight with overdue sleep. A roof right near the gardens.
Korean care and clean and neat is still on my mind. The ladies in front of us in the queue a link from yesterday. She had on a Parisian hat perched at a rakish angle, shirt and hot pink platform sneakers. The girl wore shorts, neat and high, short shorts and orange. Neat and trim. They all were. Turned her head. Middle aged, not a girl.
My mother told me a story. A great kerfuffle at the club. A lady as old as me wore a skort to bowls. Very very short. You know the thing. A blend of shorts and skirt. Bad bending look for bowls. There were many conversations and rules and etiquette opinions on the skort. And she is as old as me. And no model. Apparently.
Richard watched a program on storage on the plane. How digital storage is a limited thing. Stone lasts for thousands of years, paper a thousand maybe and digital not long. It is a problem. There are people working on solutions. So much data. So may selfies to keep forever. Our quest for immortality. Apparently storing in the cloud is a better thing. It is not corrupted by dust. The real thing made by dust but this cloud longer lasting.
All these things will pass. It will all go. What of immortality. What pics and vids will my great grandchildren see of me? How will they know what I look like? A bust in stone? How will the new embrace the old and how will we grow old? Skorts to keep youth close? Never change the room behind the wooden doors and call it something palace like?
Sort of does the mind in and lets in fear.
Maybe the cloud is the answer. The sky. Speak to the sky. The one who made the sky and the clouds and us for Himself. It is for Him we are made. If immortality is what we want, the lasting and everlasting knowing this all will pass, trust the One who made us to last, with Him, for Him, through the one who spoke all into creation.
Jesus, amen.
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