Nostalgia

Sitting around the big, wooden table at Kiwi House, finishing up a simple lunch and chatting, I noticed Steve’s hands, holding the soup spoon as he talked to us. They’re my grandfather’s hands. I loved those hands, once so steady and careful, strong yet gentle. A tear stung in my eye, surprising me into turning my head to stop watching Granddad’s hands on Steve’s body.

I just ate a piece of pumpkin pie that Steve’s wife, Evi, made. Thanksgiving is in a month and a half. We’re planning to do a whole dinner, but I know we’ll be missing some things: cranberry sauce, the plates in a stack on the counter, collard greens and turnips, preparing the feast all morning long with the women of the family…

I want to go to the house in Sneads Ferry; I want to go to the beach. I want to eat roast beef in Chesapeake and sit around in the living room with the family. I want to go to the cabin in Robbinsville, and feel free to wander around in the woods a bit. I want to visit at least a dozen places in Greensboro.

I listened to a sermon from my church online last night. I’m thrilled that they now have a podcast, and Greg’s words sunk into my heart, adding to the things God is mixing together over the last week. A few sermons, a letter from a YWAM leader to all the bases, a chapter in the Experiencing God book that we’re studying in small group, conversations with housemates and coworkers… a pinch of this, a handful of that, stirred by hand because these things aren’t quick or easy.