Nothing would make me happier than if someone had all of the books on my Amazon wish list sent to me anonymously.  Nothing.

Unless someone offered to come de-clutter my house.

But then, where would all of those books go?

We think happy hour is a fourth meal, here at the Shannons and we make good use of it. And we’re kind of obsessed with these.

I am so happy the weather is as such to re-instate our Sunday roast chicken tradition I could do cartwheels.  If I ever learned how to do them. I blame my Mother for telling me to keep both of my feet on the ground.

I made jars and jars of roasted tomato salsa with the produce that came out of my garden and had bone broth simmering in my crock pot all day and am more excited about the rye flour being shipped to my house for my sourdough starter than I ever was about buying an article of clothing.

I started brushing my teeth with baking soda and praying over the door of my child’s room against this insane virus that I see in the news and in my nightmares.

And I finished this book.  And it made me remember how Christ isn’t about programs and Facebook pages and teeshirts and highlights and everything about the hungry, the marginalized, the destitute and the broken.

I want to feed people.  People who are hungry.  I want to feed them and love them well at my table amid down lap blankets and Earl Grey.  I have always wanted that, but I had forgotten.

I watch Chocolat or Amelie when I’m sad.  Or lonely.  Or bored.  Anytime, really.

Especially when I should already be in bed.  Like, now.


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