...waking before dawn with last night's book still lying across my chest. I rise, make hot sweet tea, savor every drop, then write a letter to Amanda before it is time to dress for church.
...singing the doxology with a two-month-old boy in my arms. When the trumpets sound, he stirs in his sleep but does not wake.
...puzzling over the map after yet another wrong turn. Just when we think we must be completely lost, we guess our way onto the right road. Soon we're at the house of new friend, fingering linen and beads, discussing the arts of a vanished age.
...knitting with the wool they gave me. The deep blue reminds me the Texas sky at night, and they intricate cables could be an emblem of friendship.
...tracing a pattern of snowdrops on linen. When the flowers are done, the motto around them will be "Al shall be wele," from Julian of Norwich's Revelations of Divine Love.
...Skyping with my mother, showing one another recent treasures from thrift shops.
...sitting outside and giving thanks for the breeze. I miss the church that taught me to see the natural seasons as a counterpoint to liturgy.