I heard voices yesterday. Get out and walk, said my muscles. Get some fresh air, screamed my lungs. Summer’s almost done, whispered my soul—get out and enjoy it. I put them off all day. Things to do. Places to go. People to see.

Towards evening I noticed the sky. Azure. Puffy clouds shifting at the whim of a gentle wind. The kind of sky small children behind school desks are likely painting this week. Additions to the perennial “My vacation…” series.

At dusk the Lord of that sky beckoned. A Holy Spirit breeze brushed my spirit. Come, Kathleen.

So I pedaled down a country road last evening, somewhat reluctantly. My ancient narrow-tired bicycle travels poorly on gravel.

 We rode a few miles, that cycle and I. Wobbled long among the pebbles. Off to the side, my shadow went first—woman on bike, sailing over wildflowers and hay, bobbed hair askew. The shadow didn’t reflect my smile, but I felt it stretching. The rest of me agreed.

Good for us, said my muscles. Much better now, breathed my lungs. Ah…sweet summer, stay awhile, echoed my soul.

Driving under the influence of a country road is a heady thing. I pedaled past ponds and farmhouses. Half-grown wheat and barley, white-blonde and nearly harvest-ready. I pedaled until the sun blazed like a live coal on the hearth of the sky. Until the clouds embered and the embers darkened.

I talked to God all down that road, wondering why I’d waited so long to share this soul-retreat with the one who’d made it all, and me too.

The blonde-maned pony nearly unseated me. Lead rope dangling, it charged out of the ditch near the end of a farmhouse lane. Dashing barely ahead, it stopped and glared. Dared me to pass.

I suspected that I’d spooked the animal; that it had been waiting for its rider when I’d rudely interrupted its grazing. Bicycles don’t roll by there often.

Not wishing to be held responsible for a runaway horse, I stopped, dismounted, and walked forward, talking softly. The creature tolerated that—until I bent to pick up its rope. Pivoting fast, it turned its rear toward me, snorted, and began kicking air. I got the message and left the rope alone. 

A young woman came out of the house right then. She called, her authoritative voice slicing through the quiet countryside. The pony whinnied an immediate response and galloped back down the lane. The girl hopped onto its bare back. I watched them disappear between white outbuildings, heading for pasture beyond, then turned and wove toward home myself.

Today, I ponder the voices that call us all. The ones we listen to and the ones we don’t. Especially the one that can help us make sense of them all. The God we people of Christian faith often say we listen to—but even oftener, ignore. Our owner’s voice.

Seems to me, that horse has lessons to teach. Like children, we–I–need to return to learning.

He dreamed of spending his life doing what he felt he’d been born to do. But he’d been horribly bullied when young. Seven bully-inflicted scars still hid under his hairline. The terror of those years had stolen his confidence. So when gap-toothed, overweight contestant #31829 took his turn in the footlights at Britain’s Got Talent in 2007, it was remarkable he’d showed up at all.

He stood awkwardly on stage, his hands drooping at his side. When the judges asked him exactly what he was there to do, the 36 year-old fellow with too many chins answered, “to sing opera.”

The judges cringed and exchanged glances, barely restraining their smirks. The man in the funny little suit watched the reaction, looking almost ready to cry. “Go ahead,” they said.

As a youngster, he took up music in school. It became his solace, allowing him to escape the bullying during lunch hours for practice in the music room. Along the way, he fell in love with opera, grabbing every musical opportunity he could. Later he took extra jobs to earn enough to travel to Italy for a group class with Italian tenor, Pavarotti. The singer picked him out as someone to take note of.

Then came cancer, an accident, and a series of health crises. Medical debts piled high. Paying them down obliterated his hopes of a life in opera. His lack of confidence didn’t help.

The contestant from South Wales had moved past his traumatic past and gotten on with life. He’d become a cell-phone salesman, married and served his community as a civil leader. And he’d all but given up his dream. He’d entered the competition on a whim, despite feeling sure his voice was far off the mark of what the judges were looking for.  “I was terrified,” he admitted.

The man opened his mouth to sing, and the first strains of a classic Pucccini aria emerged.  A voice judge Simon Cowell later described as “magical” soared through the theatre. People forgot the funny suit, the extra pounds and chins, the gap in the teeth. Attendees wept in their seats. Other stood instantly, in praise of an undeniable God-given gift.

 The competition could have closed in that instant.

Paul Potts lives his dream now. Since winning Britain’s Got Talent in 2007, he has sung for the queen and performed hundreds of solo concerts in great halls around the world. He’s made several full length albums, and been interviewed hundreds of time. His humility shines through his incomparable performances, and they still bring people to tears.

“What would you say to your bullies now?” one interviewer asked. With remarkable grace, Paul responded, “In some ways, the bullying probably made me the person I am. So, in some ways, thank you.”

Diamonds are made from lumps of coal. Pearls begin as irritations. Got tough stuff in your life? Whether or not it seems possible, God can bring good from it. Trust him for the jewel.

***

Watch Paul Potts’s initial performance at BGT, 2007

Thirty-four years ago, when we were first married and still attending college, the Preacher and I worked as care-aides in a Winnipeg nursing home. Among the residents was a sparrow of a woman named Mimi. Osteoporotic, her brain clouded with dementia, she’d nevertheless captured the hearts of the entire staff.

Mimi stood about four feet tall. Like I said, a sparrow. When I first worked with her, she had free run of the home. Her fine paper-white hair swept into a beribboned ponytail, she popped in and out of other patients’ rooms, stealing teeth and bibs, and visiting as though with family.

She praised each made bed, and chided at each mussy one. She wandered into the kitchen, raising pot lids and stirring things, adding any spices she thought necessary, to the cooks’ amusement. Occasionally the Preacher had to pick her up and put her back where she belonged. She laughed, then. Giggled like a girl.

Mimi frequently visited Bob Cord, the man in the room nearest the nurses’ station. Sometimes she even crawled into bed with him—an uncomfortable squeeze at best. The crusty old Irishman protested so loudly we heard him in the south end of the south wing.  “SOMEONE GET THIS —— WOMAN OUT’A HERE!”

The Preacher had the ill fortune of having to fetch her from there once. She fought him all the way, weeping and beating on his arm. “That’s my husband. He needs me. Take me back to my Jim!” I never saw her angry except then.

On a good day, Mimi swaddled the place with cheer. Charmed us all with her insatiable curiosity and concern for anyone in sight. She couldn’t think much past that.

But only Mimi’s recent memory had fled. She remembered the long-ago past with remarkable clarity; her years as a young bride, a young mother, a farm wife. In those days, Mimi dwelt. And though it flew in the face of our reality orientation training, we left her there most of the time. Her mind had returned her to the years and people she loved best. What right had we to displace her heart?

Mimi’s pillow was almost as large as she was, but one night, as I helped her into bed, she asked for a second one. She’d never done that before. “We’re short on pillows, love,” I told her. Her face fell.  But I was curious. “Why do you want another pillow, Mimi?”

She seemed surprised, but her face lit up. “Why, for Jim! He works so hard in the fields.” Suddenly, she sat up, placed her own pillow on one side of the bed, and scooted over far to the other side, against the bars. “It’s okay,” she said, laying her head down on the sheet. “He can have mine.”

Mimi ‘s beyond-death-and-dementia kind of love still challenges me in the Christ-mandated, putting-another’s-needs-first department. Even after decades of my own marriage, I have far to go, most days.

Happy Anniversary, Hon. You get the pillow tonight.

Headin’ to Manitoba, said my cousin’s voice on the phone.  And hey….the road goes right through (well, almost). Could we…?

(You can do that, with family.)

“We’d love that,” I said. “Come.” In fact, I’d be offended if those children of my fathers’ elder brother and their spouses didn’t stop.

Watchers populate my father’s side of the family tree. We don’t hover. Most of us don’t stay in touch much. But in unusual life seasons, the uncles, the aunts, the cousins and spouses—we all hear. And at family joys and sorrows, some of us turn up.

Family does that.

I don’t think any of us realize how much we value each other until we re-emerge in each others’ lives, bringing inestimably precious cargo: love, wrapped in empathetic emotion: Tears. Laughter. Hope.

They’d never visited us at Hope House, these cousins. They were, no doubt, curious. They have a right to be: the right of familial propriety. A connectedness that keeps the distance bridged, and the bridges open for whenever any of us may need to cross.

They pulled up about an hour after they called. The Preacher and I led them on a tour of the yard. Then, over black coffee, white tea, and Voortman’s blueberry-filled oatmeal cookies, we sat in the living room and caught up.

We reported on our growing families, spread across three provinces. We shared accomplishments and mistakes, discussed our health and our hopes. Dreams, too. “Wanna go to New York? Take in a musical? Hey, let’s plan it for 2012. By the way…anybody got money?”

We punctuated our conversation with laughter, with some eyeball rolling and teasing about thinning hair, scattered minds and widening girth. You can get away with that, with family.

We reviewed the strings that connect and the strands that separate. We touched on upbringing and downsizing; on each of the four generations with which we’re all inextricably linked: our aged parents, our aging selves, our range-in-age children, and our grandchildren of barely-any-age-at-all-yet. (We bragged on them a bit. You can do that around family, too.)

Of our fathers’ many brothers, only two remain. The older we cousins get, the more I observe—among the closest—that we are cut from similar patterns. Our fathers’ genes came strong to us, firmly entwined with chords of love for God and earth, family and fellow man. They are giants in our memories, those men. Combined with the genes of our mothers, faithful and iron-strong, we are each doubly blessed by these ties that bind us. We hope to pass them on.

I didn’t mean to write about cousins today. Maybe I didn’t. Perhaps this is a litany of gratitude for open bridges. Or a sigh for families who have become disconnected and miss each other. Maybe an enticement to tie up fraying family chords. Or, to those who have burned their bridges, an invitation to re-build—for those who come behind.

Because families do that.

Ever since I learned that a finely sprayed mist of water works to smooth out wrinkles, I’ve rarely used my iron. But spraying doesn’t work on all materials.

Five-year-old Benjamin, after an overnight stay, dragged a red plaid shirt from his knapsack. “Nana, I’m wearing this shirt today! It’s my favourite!”

I could barely see the print, the shirt had so many creases. It looked as though he’d stored under his mattress for safekeeping. No fine mist will work on this, I thought. Heavy metal may, though.

“Great, Bean. Let’s get it ready for you to wear.” I walked to the closet and dug about for the iron, finally spotting it lolling behind the light bulbs and extra chords.

“Nana, what’s that?” the Bean asked, when I hauled it out. He has seen his mother iron—but pre-schoolers need things repeated.

“It’s an iron, Mr. Bean.”

“Does it make noise? What does it do?”

“No noise, hon. But it makes things flat and smooth.”

 Benjamin watched me lay his shirt across the miniature ironing board (which I had to explain was NOT a snowboard) and begin pressing. “But why does my shirt need to be flat and smooth?”

The Preacher has protested flat himself, for eons.  Even I don’t know why smooth is better. But rather than flout convention and tradition, I changed the subject. (Distraction still works for five-year-olds—though barely.)

“Here you go, Bean. Put it on while it’s still warm!” I said, swiping the collar one last time. He wore his flat shirt all day—though he did ask me to “warm it up, again” later.

 The spray technique works well sometimes. On a recent sweltering day, I put on a scoop-necked cotton sun-dress. After misting the creases from the front, I called the Preacher.

“Hon, I’ve got some wrinkles in the back. Could you spray them out, please?” I handed him the water bottle and turned around.

The cool mist on my neck and upper back felt good. But he dallied so long up there that water flowed down my back. “Hey! You’re not getting the dress! I said spray out the wrinkles!” I protested.

He chuckled, dropped the mister and limped off as fast as I’ve seen him move in years. I got his joke then, and chuckled in spite of myself.

“Wondered how long it’d take ya,” he shot over his shoulder.

 Souls, as well as cloth and skin, wrinkle up too. But the things that shrivel those—sin, fear, worry, desperation, pride, and frustration (for starters)—need spiritual solutions. Daily ones.

Got a wrinkled soul? Here’s help: Apply heavy metal: the solid-gold, sword-sharp, white-heat truth of God’s word. Return for a warm-up frequently. Mist constantly with honest conversation with Jesus Christ and service to others. And enlist a trustworthy Christ-following friend to assist you with the wrinkles you’re blind to. We all have those. Even the Preacher.

A pair of Bushnell 7 X 15 X 35 binoculars hangs over a chair-back near our front window—the better to spy on the new neighbours. They don’t seem to mind the paparazzi, and appear oblivious to our inspection. (Then again, perhaps they’re watching us.)

 The robin parents hatched three chicks in the front-yard maple in late spring. The Preacher and I have never had such an intimate look at avian domesticity. Standing well back from the window, I peer in with fascination.

 Faultlessly loyal in his role as fly-in provider, papa robin coaxes his mate up to the edge of the nest so he can feed the triplets. Mama huddles there, supervising—seemingly glad for the break.

 For three’s a crowd, indeed.

 During my first pregnancy, our neighbour expected her second child. Her tummy grew unusually cumbersome. My last pregnancy, she vowed. Never again. But I’d like a big family, at least four, said her husband.

In colossal humour, both got their way. Fatima—two weeks overdue—gave birth to an unexpected set of triplets. She wore pyjamas for a solid year. When she took the babies for a walk in their triple stroller, she added a housecoat.

The robins’ nest, an almost weightless, neatly swirled circle of grasses, rests in a crotch of bark two limbs up, about ten feet off the ground. I worried plenty about it during the series of severe storms that recently battered our area. An umbrella of leaves doesn’t protect much.

During the worst, a gale that threatened human life, I grabbed the binoculars and sat down in front of the window to add a little watching to my worrying. There sat Mrs. Robin, unmoving, wings outstretched over her offspring. When the wind lifted the nest almost at a right angle to the tree, she clung tight. Drenched to her pinfeathers, her beak ran water-droplets like a leaky faucet.

Whenever the blow took an intake of breath before its next big gust, in darted the sodden male, bearing take-out. To my astonishment, he first fed his mate. She ate, then lifted herself off the nest just high enough for the chicks to thrust their gaping mouths out from under her wings.

That storm chased over a hundred people from their homes near here. Many houses sustained irreparable damage and have since been condemned. Yet my avian neighbours’ small circle of grasses remained intact—and so did the little family.

These are difficult times to keep a home together. Marriages have never before collapsed at the present rate. Battered by sundry storms, partners flee commitment, sacrificing future joy for present relief or passing pleasures. I grieve the brittle spirits, the inevitible from-bad-to-worse years, the wounds festering in childrens’ bewildered hearts.

Two weather-beaten people I love celebrated their fifty-eighth anniversary this month. They remind me of the robins. They held hard to Jesus, fought storms together, and survived formidable enemy attacks. They even survived raising me.

Lord, give us robin-spirits. Our neighbours are watching.

Bones have fascinated our son from his childhood. I remember the day that began.

At three, after a bad case of whooping cough, he needed weeks of physiotherapy in the hospital clinic. After one of his sessions, I stood discussing his progress with the therapist. Tired of our talk, Anthony hopped off the low table and disappeared around the corner.

Seconds later, he dashed back into the room. “Mommy, come here!” He tugged my hand and demanded I follow. We flew down the corridor and rounded the corner. He pulled me into a small dark room, weirdly lit by the light from the hall.

Pointing straight ahead, trembling a tad, he shouted. “WHAT IS IT?”

My eyes followed his finger and met the vacant gaze of a life-sized skeleton. Gulping, I explained what it was, and that nurses and doctors used it to teach people about our bodies.

Our boisterous son remained quiet all day. The next morning he doodled with his breakfast, then put his spoon down firmly and looked me in the eye. “Mommy, when I’m off my bones, where am I going to be, and where are my bones going to be?”    

Bones at breakfast. Every mother’s dream.

The “after death, what?” question slices through history. Every major religion includes an afterlife belief. Humans have a built-in sense that we are each part of something much bigger and longer than our few years on earth. We long not to end at our finish lines.

And indeed we don’t. Right over our cereal, I gave my child a crash course: Biblical Beliefs about Death 001.

“When people who love God and live for Jesus die, their spirits leave their bodies, honey. They don’t need their old bones anymore. Jesus said we’ll have new bodies in heaven.

He thought a moment. “But what happens to people who don’t love God?”

Cornflakes almost shot out my nose. I should have expected our intuitive child to point out the elephant in the room, the one many Christians ignore.

I can’t remember the exact words I used, but I told him what I learned as a child. That the Bible talks about hell, a lake of fire where Satan and his demons will get their due. And that though it makes God very sad, people who don’t love and obey him will end up there too—by their own choice.

Now that I’m older, I believe fewer things than I once did, but the more firmly I believe those few. And I still believe that God, in love, allows us to choose what happens after our earthly finish lines.

I recently attended a funeral for someone with a known passion for God and Biblical truth. The officiate talked all around the elephant in the room. I left there thinking we need a skeleton at every final service. And a tiny child, to ask in a voice clear and innocent: “When I’m off my bones, where am I going to be…?”

As our family drove home from Canada Day celebrations, the day rapidly changed moods. Since morning, we’d enjoyed sunshine at a heritage site about an hour southwest. Now, in stark contrast to the blue and gold, the afternoon sky became a collage of bizarre cloud formations. Some, blinding white and shaped like colossal cauliflowers, grew rapidly larger.

In the back seat and looking skyward, Benjamin Bean told cloud-stories. “That one’s a dragon, see? And there’s its baby. It looks HUNGRY!”

The sky lost its friendliness, blackening fast, until only a fist-sized clear spot remained. Then that disappeared too.

Rain comin’, we said, cruising through the city of Yorkton, our long-time home until we moved to a bedroom community a few miles north last year.

We’d been invited to a barbeque that evening. Guess the barbecue’s off, I thought. Noah came to mind too. With what would you have us build an ark, Lord? No gopher wood in this part of the prairie. And can we forget the pair of mosquitoes?

Moments after we arrived home, a storm of biblical proportions descended.  The rain started and the power quit. Thunder reverberated. Lightning zipped across the horizon.

Over the next several hours, over six inches of water fell on Yorkton and area—most of that in one twenty-minute period. According to those who know such things, that’s 894,321,540 gallons of water, spread over 6, 570 acres of city. It rushed off concrete and asphalt, found the lowest places, filled them up, and kept rising.

One person, standing in a basement apartment living room, noticed something strange on the wall. Sudden cracks appeared and raced floor-ward. A second later, the entire wall caved in, followed by another wall—rushing water. Swimming out was the only alternative. And waiting for rescue by canoe.

Up to seven feet of floodwater filled over half of Yorkton basements. It poured into hollows in the lowest parts of town. A sudden sea sprawled over farm-fields between our home and the city, necessitating livestock evacuation.

Thank God, no lives were lost—but multiple homes and businesses were destroyed. Local history books will mark Canada Day 2010.

Rain keeps coming, though the deluge has stopped. The sea has diminished—mostly. Felled trees have become firewood. Roofs sport colorful tarps. Basement windows wear boards. And waterlogged furniture and carpets hunker curbside, waiting for pickup.

But the storm continues in the lives of our neighbours. Faces remain wet with tears, electrified by shock. More than possessions were lost—lifestyles swept downstream. Speaking from experience, new normal takes years to find.

Many local initiatives have started to help the flood victims. The Preacher and I attended one less than a week after the flood—a hastily organized chili supper at the local Mennonite church. The chili, made by church members, was delicious. So were the buns—large, fluffy, and homemade.

I sampled, too, the best rhubarb dessert I’ve ever eaten, a square, topped with meringue.

Hope House, when we arrived, had two large rhubarb plants out back. We plowed one up last month. Now we have three. Always looking for new recipes, I inquired as to who had made that divine dessert.

One of the organizers told me its story. A community member had heard about the fundraiser and called to ask if she could bring something for dinner. She baked that dessert, and ALL the buns. No one seemed to know her name.

Here’s the best recipe I heard that night: When faced with need, take the thing you do best, the thing you enjoy doing most. Ask God to plug it in somewhere. Then start watching for open doors. Just as he did with the buns and the rhubarb, he’ll find a spot for every willing giver who wants to share his love with those in desperate need of hope.

And it really doesn’t matter if people ever know your name.

This morning, simply to celebrate the sun, I hung our wash outside to dry. Strung each piece against tree and sky. Threaded them like odd-shaped beads on a high wire.

Shirts and towels immediately began flirting with the breeze. Slacks and capris danced jigs in perfect time with the wind. And in clear view of the raspberry patch, the pretty things made indescribable moves.

When we bought our house, I didn’t pay much attention to the clothesline. But four-year-old Benjabean noticed its old rugged poles immediately. He saw the nearest first, silhouetted against the white and blue autumn sky. Then he noticed the second. It towers over the shady grove at the bottom of the yard. The secret place.

He stood. Thought a moment.

“Nana, you have two crosses in your backyard. Why?”

“They hold up the clothesline.”

“What’s a clothesline?”

That surprised me. I’m a first generation mostly-dryer-user, so the memory of the family laundry flapping in frequent coastal blows remains vivid. (As does the rush to haul it in before the typical washday rains.)

I’ll have to make sure to use the line when the grandbeans are around, I thought, as I clamped the wooden clothespins over the Preacher’s pyjamas. But suddenly I wondered something: was I doing right by my family textiles this sunny morning? Some say there’s a protocol for hanging clothes.

The people who live in Singapore’s high-rise apartments don’t seem to follow any protocol. In glorious freedom and unsorted array, their clean laundry sways high above the streets, dangling from poles telescoping straight out their windows.

I’ve seen that myself, and wondered how often Singaporeans lose laundry to the wind. What a shock it would be to find, while pedaling bike ten stories below, that the heavens have delivered a new shirt. Pasted it on as you rode.

Pinning our damp clothing to the line, I wondered about Western protocol. About whether I’d done it right, or if any lurking hanging-out-laundry-police could fine me for unlawful and disorderly handling of wet things. Later, I did a little research online. Sure enough, I’d broken almost every dearly held laundry law, except this one:

“Throughout the hanging of undergarments, it is best to check that degenerate neighbours are not feasting their eyes on the personals.”

Trees border our backyard. No neighbours, degenerate or otherwise, have feasting opportunity. Only a pair of agitated wrens observed me this morning. Their shrill buzzes warned me to steer clear of their house, hanging high on the east cross.

I’ve thought long about laundry today. About how beautiful clean is. How fragrant. About how much sweeter the world would be if everyone hung their wash out under sunny skies sometimes. And about how often in my heart I’ve stood in the shadow of another old rugged cross. Bowed low before Christ there.  And  humbled by forgiveness, felt my freshly washed soul flap about in delirious, glorious freedom.

No laws there either. No slaps on the wrist. Just grace. Just grace.

When did the lovely art of hospitality start to leave us? It dangles by a fraying thread, it seems. Even among Christ-followers, mandated to share both home and food, the hardened shears of too-much-business, and too-little-love have almost snipped it from among us.

The Preacher and I recently accepted an invitation to share a meal at the home of country friends. As our car charged like an eager steed over arrow-straight prairie roads, we became escapees to gentler times. Busy town life faded behind us like yesterday’s dreams.

In its place stood a wide, welcoming porch, and an apron-clad hostess beckoning, “Come in! Come in!” Inside, the air was redolent with fragrance. Cinnamon buns. Ham. And something else, discernible only with the spirit: the presence of Christ.

I’m positive he joined us as we sat around that table, beautifully decorated with smiling faces. I know he blessed us with his presence, influencing our thoughts and directing our conversation. I imagine his eyes gleamed. I imagine he listened to our chatter with interest. I imagine he chuckled.

It happened again a few evenings ago at our own home. Clouds hovered all day, threatening rain. But inside, as I prepared to open Hope House to others, God’s Son brushed my heart with joy.

The Preacher was away, so I’d invited five female friends. They flocked in, bearing dishes. We shared a salad supper, potluck style. We sat long. Talked much, laughed often. And sometime during the evening…perhaps when the youngest among us wandered over to our century-old piano, and teased a simple melody from its badly-tuned ivories…perhaps it was then, I sensed Christ enjoying the evening with us.

I have often, and gladly, shared time in restaurants with friends. But the convenience of not having to prepare both house and food comes at the expense of things precious: the joy of serving others, the intimacy of community life, and that sweet sense of sitting alongside a Divine, unseen guest.

When ordinary people share ordinary food and ordinary drink in an ordinary home, and when all that is mixed with love, something extra-ordinary happens. Something much sweeter than the triple-citrus cheesecake daughter Amanda supplied the other night.

Life, I think, doesn’t get much richer.

For decades, our family and friends sat around an antique nine-foot oak table. We’ve passed it on to our children now, but I cherish the memories made around its polished, time-and-child-worn finish.

We have a different table now; round and black, and already sticky with memories of precious guests who’ve shared it—family, friends, strangers. Gratitude overflows in me for each one.

Hospitality is always work. But when love propels it, it serves us in the end, refreshing drained and soured spirits, and dishing up memories that sustain soul-health for years.

I challenge you: open your door. Make it potluck, if you dare. But don’t forget to invite Christ. He is spirit sustenance itself: Bread of life, Oil of joy. Living water.

Invite someone home.