As the weekend comes to a close legs ache, shoulders hurt, and the back screams. My jeans smell of leather and horse sweat, streaked across with mud, sand, dust, spackle, and paint. Two boots caked with manure and corral dirt stand in lonely exile by the door.
The floors aren’t vacuumed, and the fridge isn’t stocked, but with light fixtures down and bare wires capped off, walls prepped and painted, communion received, scriptures studied, and horses ridden through the woods and sandhills we’ll call that a succesful weekend.
Now for some Ibuprofen and a heating pad.