It’s Sabbath again. I have lit my candle, prayed my prayers, and still I resist the hand of God. I see His writing on the wall. I see His scratches on the ground. I am afraid.

I don’t want God’s kind of good. Like Bilbo, and I wish to be left alone. No adventures, thank you. I’ve got tea on, don’t you see – good tea at that. Can’t you come back tomorrow?

Still, if Gandalf had not persisted, marching into Bilbo’s house with 12 voracious dwarves, Bilbo would not have had a tale to tell. There would be no There, and Back Again

Our adventures are such rubbish. Hospitals, instead of dragons. Magic medicines, not magic rings. Debate instead of war. There are so few chances to be heroic in our global world of isolated islands

Bilbo was chosen for a burglar, a disreputable task for a hobbit. I wonder what task my Wizard has in store for me. Ever since I let that Jesus fellow in, I haven’t had a moment’s peace

I’m weary, Lord. I don’t want a holy day to worship You, but instead a holiday from You. Good morning, Sir!

(You’re still there, aren’t You?)

I am only quite a little person in a wide world, after all.