I love the Celtic prayer habit of three-ing everything. There’s just something about things in threes that satisfies me like the evenness of twos and fours never can.
Thus do bacon and eggs never satisfy without a side of fried potatoes or at the least, a piece of toast.
And oh, how I wish socks were sold in threes, for I am inevitably set on losing one, leaving the other lone sister abandoned, unwanted, in the dark reserve of the drawer of abandoned things too good to throw away or hurled to the rag pile, this perfectly fine sock with no mate.
And if there be PBJ in my future, I’ll wait until I have a banana for that perfect trio of flavor.
And what are pencil and paper with no story? Or a hammer and a nail with no hand? Or a pair of pants with no legs? Or spaghetti and meatballs with no scooping, sopping garlic bread? Or peaches and cream without a spoon? Or Fred and Ginger without the band? Thunder and lightening without some rain? Sound and fury without a thing signified? Sheets and pillowcases without a bed?
A father and a son without a she-flying-the-waters-of-time, wisdom-bearing-carrying, life-breathing-love-giving oh-so-holy spirit?
Ah, yes, I do love the trinity of things.
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