Being born of dour Scots Presbyterians and marrying into a clan of the same with the tartan set at a particularly dull tone of grey, Lew's post today rocks the very fibers of the traditions of faith as me and mine know it. And does so wonderfully well:
...it's a fast day, and while I'm not drinking only beer through Lent like some folks (though my hat's off to him), I've built a little tradition around Trappist beers on Good Friday, and big beers tomorrow, before singing at Easter Vigil. The first is my own, the second grew out of the timing of Split Thy Skull, the pioneering Philly big beer event held at Sugar Mom's on Easter Saturday (and yeah, it's on for tomorrow)...well, actually, it grew out of one year when my wife's brother Carl showed up for Easter at the Trenton train station with a shoebox full of Dominion Millennium and we killed two of them on the way home...
While my hat was not off to the other guy, mainly due to one bit of direction, Lew seems to have not only put oil on his head and washed his face, but he has put the lamp on the stand. While that all actually places me in a very bad spot myself and colours neither of those two, Lew's mentioning of his singing in his tradition always reminds me about mine. It reminds me that as we come out of another winter into newness, it's another stage of that same cycle.
This warm afternoon is a break between grey days of downpours. But it's a perfect moment, even if our sort don't fast, for something big and rich, a dubbel... or maybe a doppelbock if I can find one in the stash.