But before I can start cooking, I remember the daily chapter of Tehillim I’ve promised to recite for the refuah of a young lady
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The rain falls in sheets outside my kitchen window. It’s coming down strong. And noisy. Surprisingly noisy.
I am soap-sudding my dishes. Supper is prepared in my head. But before I start cooking I remember the daily chapter of Tehillim I’ve promised to recite for the refuah of a young lady.
I don’t like committing to say a daily chapter of Tehillim. I can be notoriously absentminded. And with the myriad strands of life I’m constantly trying to weave into submission I frequently find myself frowning at the mirror upset at missing a day or two. A chapter or two. Precious vials of health. And I hate being the one who has let the team down.
To placate myself I’ll say: “Ah well. You were only meant to say the one chapter. It isn’t that terrible. You can start again tomorrow.” And I may be right. But I’m also wrong. I realize that when I listen to the rain.
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