Summer’s officially here.
Heat radiated off sidewalks and the top of my head earlier this week as Lily and I walked from the parking lot, headed for brunch at Comforts in downtown San Anselmo.
Comforts, well named.
A good word to settle into, even before entering the restaurant and tasting their fresh farm-to-table food.
Later, as I sat on the porch outside the bedroom I share with Lily, I marveled at varying shades of green across the valley and up towards Mt. Tam. Remarkable how trees, shrubs, flowers adapt to these months of intense heart with no or little rain in California.
Earlier in the day I noticed the marquee outside the San Anselmo theater. The sign asked for donations to fund repairs on the bells and set them ringing once more at San Francisco Theological Seminary.
Until the sign grabbed my attention, I hadn’t missed the bells, despite years of enjoying their tones wafting through the air, whenever I visited my family in San Anselmo. The bells tolled more than times; they wrapped days in familiarity, comforted while infusing the air with God-sounds.
Maybe that’s at the heart of some of my problems.
After a while, I’ve adapted and grown accustomed to life with less than God intended, become used to my parched soul, the silence of my song, unaware of all I’m missing.
We need signs.
I need them in BOLD type.
Back at the Perch.
Good to be home.
Out running errands yesterday, when a sign showed up on the backend of the car ahead of me.
It read simply: Make America Grateful Again.
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