"He asked me how I am, and, because he’s a monk, I told him."

I can’t really quantify how much of my domestic bliss is the direct result of being married to a woman who says things like this.  It’s bigger than huge, and probably somewhere between big ol’ herkin’ thang and infinity.

Mind you, she said this in passing, on her way to sharing some other part of her conversation with said monk.  In my head, I actually raised my hand to ask for some clarification.  I can’t remember if my arm responded to the command that my head attempted to send, or whether it felt that imagining the raised hand was sufficient.  At any rate, SweetP stopped, and I asked what the dude’s being a monk had to do with her telling him how she’s doing.  Because I’m neither a priest, nor do I play one on TV, I assumed it had something to do with the fact that when he’s not praying, he’s living in silence most of the time, thus, when he finally gets those rare moments for secular conversation, probably his first conversational stop is to gossip about the other monks he lives with:  “When’s the last time Brother X had his robes washed?” or “Did you hear Brother Y at Compline?  He can’t carry a tune in a bucket!”

But that’s not what SweetP meant.  She meant that since he’s a monk, he’s praying a lot of the time, and it can’t hurt to have someone who prays frequently to have you and your concerns on his prayer list.  And since she told him about my imminent lack of gainful employment, he is now praying for me.

I felt like Emily Litella.  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh.  Nevermind.

Thanks for the prayers, Brother J.  Clearly, I need all the help I can get.

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