Today people keep coming down the front yard stairs, other moms, some familiar, some strange, dropping off witchdoctor salves or releasing young children down the sidewalk. Part of me raises barriers, grumbles at strangers’ forthrightness, meets them on the sidewalk to keep them from entering my home. And part of me admits from behind the stony walls that this is exactly what it means to be open to what God brings me, this is what it means to let love flow through my doors, to welcome the divine spark in each human God guides down the stairs. Who am I to know that the nerdy needy ones aren’t the angels? That these aren’t the people placed gently like treasures at my doorstep if i can just have arms to receive them.?When did my love become so conditional, so unwilling to sacrifice a few minutes of solitude? Since when is my home a possession to guard with avarice? Lord forgive me.

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