My husband is asleep, in bed. I think he’s run himself to the end of his rope. He doesn’t feel good. I’m glad he’s resting.
My youngest child is in bed, moving towards sleep, freshly showered and done with homework, chores, small group and endless skateboarding.
My eldest son is working his job, spending late nights being a Responsible Young Adult. He’ll deal with more homework when he gets home.
And me? I’m home, content and fulfilled after a day of conversation, personal attention, communication, instruction, music, and women sitting around a table talking about God.
Women, sitting around a table, talking about God. And ourselves. And the rich story of Life, filled with sorrow and joy, pain and injustice, fear and confidence. Raising children. Wrestling with relationships. Karma.
The holy part of religion, of church, of life itself, is not found only in the ceremony. It doesn’t reside solely in the assembly. It’s not just a Sunday morning thing.
Holy and pure looks like women, sitting around a table, talking about God.
And men, doing the same.
And sometimes, men and women together.
Sometimes you don’t have to look too hard to find holiness. Sometimes it’s sitting right beside you.