Each title is an era trapped in amber, a fossil record of a former self.
On this aðfangadagskvöld, it’s my duty to tell you specifically about the final Yule Lad, who arrives tonight. His name is Kertasníkir, and if you know Icelandic, you’re clutching your candles.
He did not use grand showmanship or elaborate displays. He used simple, humble, everyday love.
I’ll admit it’s more of a mindset than a meteorological observation, but if you’re a winter-hater, might it be better in the long run to hang on to fall as long as you can?
So Happy Birthday, Kendahl, and cheers to twenty-nine. This year is going to be the best one yet.
Seeing chipped stained glass and other signs of disrepair was dismaying, but it also renewed my appreciation of how church architecture brings grandeur into public space.
Then MOses set OUT with JOSHua his AIDE. And MOses went UP the MOUNtain of GOD.
That’s one thing that sucks about winter camping. There’s nothing to do after it gets dark, except drink beer and stare at the fire.
“I’m actually on a connecting flight, traveling to a corn hole tournament. It’s a pretty big deal,” the man in the seat behind me announced.
