Labor, crosses, prophets and floods

I've lost count of laundry loads and dishwasher runs and dinners cooked, the house has been bouncing since I got back from Rome in early August. The boys have come and gone again, back to school and work, one to the east, the other west.  The Egg's friends have come to visit, sleeping on sofas.

The long and short of serving.

My sister-in-law, No-no came to drop my niece, She of the Book, off at college.  From Houston.  They arrived here the day Harvey hit, awoke Sunday morning to texts from my brother Geek Guru that the waters of the nearby bayou had risen fast and he and my nephew were shocked to find they were now trapped in the house.  They spent a damp, dark day surrounded by flood waters, checked on by police on a Zodiac, watching neighbors get pulled out by boat and helicopter.

They are, I am relieved to say, now safe. When the waters went down, they evacuated to my other Houston brother's house. The house is OK, it was raised up past the 100 year flood level.  The garage and the cars in it?  Toast.

Labor, crosses, prophets and floods. And yet still, ordinary time.