Yesterday the finance committee chair came by to bring the pastor a can of gas…  Yeah, I don’t know why.  She also brought me my paycheck.  She had folded it into quarters and stashed it in the hip pocket of her jeans.  I don’t know why I’ve never noticed this fact about her: despite a habit of wearing utterly gorgeous $300 shoes, she almost never carries a purse.  She just carries the keys to her robin’s egg blue sports car in her hand.  Receiving a pocket-worn paycheck is kind of like being paid by a nine year old boy.  It’s endearing.

You know what else is endearing?  The pastor’s coffee making.  He gets in every morning and brews coffee for the construction workers.  Then he divvies it up into styrofoam cups he’s written their names on with sharpie and then delivers the coffee to the guys.  They mostly don’t drink it.  But it’s still an oddly sweet, vulnerable gesture.

One of my favorite things is when you can see people at all their ages simultaneously, when adults are childlike in their joy or vulnerability or when children are grave or wise or ironic.

The pastor’s out of the office today, so I plan on getting a lot done.  Let’s get to it.

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