(Which, by the way, is my most favorite of Lenten hymns.)

Yesterday was one of those days which, at the end of it, rewarded me with the deep-in-my-bones-but-satisfying kind of tired.

I got a late start because of sheer exhaustion from the insomnia that has plagued me on and off for weeks (years). You see, I got the brilliant idea at 2:30 Wednesday morning that I should do communion and ashes with the home/facility-bound members of St. Stoic. I spent from 2:30am to about 6:00am figuring out exactly what I needed to put in place to do this. I waited until a polite hour to call up my Parish Associate to see if he wanted to accompany on this journey, then waited a little longer to start calling up those members with phones whom I would be visiting, to make sure they would be welcoming to the idea. To my surprise, everyone said yes.

After those calls I broke my cardinal rule of never sleeping during daylight and took a quick nap. Big mistake. I woke up more tired than ever, and crunched for time. I managed to meet Retired and Dignified at the church at the appointed time, and off we went.

You know how the Bible says that our blessings will come back to us "pressed down, shaken together and running over?" That is how my day was. For the first time, I mean the very. first. time. I felt as if I was doing Something That Mattered.

Its such a simple thing, really: a little bread, a little juice, a little bit of ashes I bought from a supply house because I was too short-sighted to burn my own.

But when you add the Holy Spirit: such beauty, such grace. People who have never invited me to be in their homes, much less their hearts, unexpectedly let me see that there had been a connection to something holy.

And this: Four of the eight people I visited yesterday are suffering from Alzheimer's. Every single one of them--even the ones who have no idea who else is in the room with them--were able to chime in from memories that everyone else considers lost forever as soon as I began "Our Father..."

After worship last night, after an exhausting 12 hours spent serving communion in one location or another, a parishioner joked with me, "I'll bet you're sick of bread and juice, now, eh?" I was able to respond,"Not at all."

And mean it.