Currently Reading Murder at the Monks' Table: A Sister Mary Helen Mystery By Carol Anne O'Marie see related

I’m feeling a bit melancholy.  Friends of mine from high school, along with my sister and her family, visited this weekend.  And there is something warm and comfortable about old friends, people who’ve known you for decades, before you were married or had children, who’ve heard your dreams and doubts, known who you were and seen who you’ve become.

And I’ve realized (yet again) what an uncomfortable year this has been, of wondering where I fit and feeling like a fish out of water in so many settings.  I mean, moving has been good, and I’m really liking a few of our neighbors.  But this weekend, I remembered what I’m still looking for in friendships, easy talks where all I’m thinking about is what’s being said and not wondering what people think of me.

So, it was really nice.  They arrived on Saturday morning, my best friend from high school and her husband, along with her brother and his wife.  He’d also been a good friend, one of the core members in our youth group.  The kids (who've only seen each other a few times) fit together pretty well and managed to entertain themselves, so we could talk, talk, talk, throw food in every so often, a bit of sleep, and even play a game of Settlers.

It was relieving to see that they hadn’t morphed into conformist Christians who’ve forgotten how to think (surely no one ever thought they would have), and so, we could talk about lots of ideas and books and things we’ve thought about and what God’s showing us—and allow the accompanying spouses to skulk off to their brand new Harry Potter’s for brief intervals.

And my brother’s wife stopped by for a (very) brief visit on her way from Long Island to her home in Pittsburgh, so there were people, people, people everywhere.  And it was wonderful and lovely and made me wonder why early Christianity abandoned commune living.  But it’s back to my reclusive ways now.  I’ll try to emerge a bit to let you know we’re still alive.