Jonah

Now this is the best weather. Neither too bright nor too gloomy; neither too dry nor too wet. Lower 70s °F. Lightly breezy. Mostly (i.e., not completely) cloudy. Sporadically rainy, with t-storms at night. Much birdsong. Much comfort.

Remain this way!

Be like Quito!

Rats.

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The last few weekends, I’ve been invited by my pastor’s family to watch their daughters play soccer. They’re little; the style of play is clusterball. Even so, I can’t keep myself from analyzing the game, out loud.

“Will your children play in the youth leagues?” smiles my pastor’s wife, heroically optimistic. She’s my second-favorite person in the church.

“No, they won’t,” I say. “I wouldn’t want them growing up desiring to play for the U.S.”

She’s amused, because I mean it: I’m a man of principle.

The next weekend, I get a sunburn.

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In church, the sermon is about Jonah. I love that book. Jonah’s such a sulker.

Why doesn’t Jonah want to go to Nineveh? says my pastor. Is it because he’s afraid? No. Jonah’s not afraid.

I think: Jonah’s like, throw me overboard. He’s kind of a badass, in a grumpy (i.e., totally depressive) way.

Jonah doesn’t want God to show mercy, says my pastor. The book is about mercy. Redemption.

I know, I know.

Later, his wife speaks with me again. I tell her how much I love that book. “Remember, John-Paul, mercy,” she says. “Mercy.”