Before I forget ...

... something spooky's just happened.

This morning, before I was properly awake, but when I was no longer asleep, I had the drowsy random thought that I would probably never hear a particular song again. It was a song I loved from the very early '70s, '72, I think. I only had it on one of those 'flexi-discs', a 7-inch record made of thin plastic that were sometimes given away free on magazines, and although it was popular at the time, it wasn't a huge hit, and it's almost never played on the radio.

This afternoon, sitting at the computer and getting stuck on the continuation of my novel, I was rather grumpily working out in my head that if I want to get my 100 sober days in before the end of the year I might be able to have a drink on New Year's Eve, or actually at Christmas, but I certainly couldn't have one today, although I do want one. I stood up to go downstairs and check the calendar to count the days and make sure I couldn't squeeze a drink in tonight and I heard three distinctive notes on the radio - the song I'd been half-thinking, half-dreaming of this morning!

So I turned the radio up and sang along and now I don't want a drink any more, the desire has passed.

It may sound ridiculous, but it's little things like this that tell me God does actually care about me. I know He exists, but I feel bad about making calls on His time, when there is so much else going on the world, and so many other people with much greater needs than mine. It's as if I don't feel important enough to Him. Something as simple as that song just now on the radio is like a hand on my shoulder and a voice saying, 'You're doing great and I'm here for you, you just have to ask - oh, and I was listening, I am always listening, even when you're not asking, so here's that song.'

Right, I'm going to stop crying now and get on with my novel, now that I've had my musical reminder that what I do does matter.