Sunday

I was woken up yesterday at 8:30 by Carl McHoverton, who was at that moment hovering over the bed with a robe in his hands, saying something to me. I said something back to him that sounded like this:
"Mmuuuhhh?"
"C'mon, get up! The eggs are burning, the eggs are getting cold," he said.
"Muhhh???" but I complied, slogging out of bed and flopping downstairs in his robe and slippers. Wherupon I discovered two sets of eggs. My eggs, which were still warm, and his eggs, which were not in fact burning. Thank god we sorted that out.

Somewhere in the middle of forking my waffles and eggs down my throat, he springs on me, "hey, I want to go to Pebble Hill today!" Pebble Hill, for those of you who do not know (which is probably all of you), is the nondenominational church that Carl used to attend a few years ago. Conversation continued thusly:
"Huh?"
"Pebble Hill. We can totally make it to celebration if we leave soon."
"You are serious."
"Yes! Let's go! Hurry eat faster get dressed water the cats water the Christmas tree c'mon put shoes on!"

So that's how I ended up at church yesterday, knitting and listening to an inspirational sermon. Of course, the minister threw in antecdotal notes about life with his gay partner; the wholesome boy shoveling the sidewalk had dreadlocks; the congregation included a man who wore a dress and his new breasts to service, and an anouncement by one of the community leaders reminded the congregation about the upcoming Solstice feast.

What kind of topic might be discussed by such a minister in such a place? The title of the discussion was "What Star are You Following," roughly translated into hippy speak as (and I kid you not) "Follow the Disco Ball in Your Heart."

Sunday went on to include a drive to New Hope and delicious Thai food in a charming yuppie cafe, but "Follow the Disco Ball in Your Heart?" That there is a priceless moment of togetherness that you just can't recreate, ever.