It is Sunday and we are congregating. Our sleeps opening in reverse order and everything on its head because here we are together in this sweetness of home. We are home and we are in it together. We will go out driving because we know how to play at that. We will step into the offering of familial hospitality, this satellite reflection of who we have been, only different, coming true otherwise. We will eat bacon. And tomatoes. And admire the nursery and her burgeoning belly, this congregation. It is Sunday. This is Home.
Telling: Streams & Logs