We had a wonderful weekend full of good friends, good food, and good conversation.
We warmed a friend's new house. We talked about the beautiful 1940s bungalow with a backyard full of hundred year old trees over hamburgers and chocolate chip cookies the size of your head.
We saw friends we had gone far too long without seeing. We watched our children play and had a long chat about what it means to have Jesus-like forgiveness over plates of barbecued chicken, potato hash, and fruit pizza.
Then we came home and, while I put the kids to bed, my husband prepared a lovely dessert of raspberries, honey, almonds, and chevre. He set them out in dainty white bowls, lit candles, and poured drinks. Then I sat down with my very best friend and we talked long about grace. Real prostitute-loving Jesus-grace.
I think my husband could have been friends with Dostoevsky. They could have had long talks about this thing called grace. They could have lamented over how misunderstood it is. I think they would have had to meet in Germany though. My husband's not much of a vodka man.
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