The fabric of our lives tends to unroll in quiet, predictable folds, looking exactly the same from day to day, week to week, season to season.
Nothing wrong with that. It’s comforting, in fact. We sleep late, have cereal, coffee and orange juice for breakfast, except on Wednesdays when we eat at Waffle House #777, and Sunday at Beef O’Brady’s after church. And they know what we’re going to order when we walk in from the parking lot.
Until July 3, when a series of mishaps emerged to uproot the routine of our routine. Read More»