More church than I’ve had in a long time. Desperately needed, and missed.
Last night I attended the church of the kitchen floor.
It was me and a handful of my girlfriends all curled up into one another. The episode of the “Bachelor in Paradise” stood paused in the background. We had managed to move 6 or 7 boulders out-of-the-way before we even pressed “play.”
Admittedly, this is why we have gathered for the last year. We have gathered— all thirteen of us— every Monday to watch girls and guys pass out roses. It’s cheap television but we’re still hopeless romantics. We laugh. We crack jokes. We let no other occasions touch Monday nights on the calendar. This is sacred— not because of the roses, but because of the community it took us two seasons to build.
We built community after every episode. Between every commercial break. Within every group text. And now, a year later, we gather on Mondays for one another. We…
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