I sing from a poetic soul, there is no such thing as a pathetic role. A gift from God, I nod and lift my prayer from where I stand, gleaning grand meaning from cleaning my kitchen. What need of bitching and whining? I am freed! My creed is twining to heaven in warm surprising smell of leavening, rising well formed doughs. My nose preaches and teaches my part in the psalm to my heart. Without a qualm I count my rosary on grocery lists and chubby, grubby fists. My holy water fount tossed across the floor by my toddler, waddling to gaze up at crazy me with big, wilting, guilty eyes over the half-spilled mop bucket. Sigh. I chuck it out the door to bless the weeds and address the mess on the floor and the wild needs of my child. Somehow content (at least for the moment) this seriously proves God moves in mysterious ways through my days.