Holy Ground for Sale, Sunday morning off.

A church for sale in Maryland - something about God's house as common real estate amuses me - another intersection between the ethereal and the corporeal. How much is God's house worth on the open market? If no congregation is currently using it, has God vacated? Is He a tenant, awaiting the next landlord? What if Hindus buy the place? Will He be a room-mate? Vishnu stays up late and plays the radio loud. There's no cross on that steeple, so they're obviously ready for anything.

This morning the bald woman with the bandanna who delivers our paper has not arrived. We're sitting together, Robyn and I, she with her tea and me with my coffee, enjoying the cool quiet of early morning after a long soaking rain last night. Tye is at our feet. The kids were out late, Caitlin at prom with a friend and Walker up the street with a couple pals (no bonfire last night - only a muddy party in someone's shed, and she's "annoying") and they're sleeping in, looking more innocent than they tend to when awake. As long as we don't disturb them they'll remain children for a while, without the smirks and witticisms that remind us they're approaching the front door of adulthood. The paper woman has many vehicles, most of which idle badly, so we can assume that she'll show up in a while, late, with someone else's vehicle, hurriedly lurching down the street from box to box, making up for lost time while the rest of us sit in our comfy chairs and note the disturbance in our routine. Paper's late. Damn! More coffee. There she is. Same car - maybe she just decided to sleep in a little, too. It'd be a real treat for her. Have one on me, bandanna lady!

On this, the one day that I have no appointments or obligations, I give thanks, primarily for this peaceful feeling I have, this feeling of rested alertness, of transient well being, of right things being in right places, of the world in a certain order. By now a potential congregation has occupied the church, placed an appropriate representative symbol atop the steeple, filled the cupboards of the church school with Tang and Nilla Wafers, and settled it's cumulative rear end in the long dark polished pews which once sat lonely in the sanctuary. God's unpacking his eternally omniscient suitcases in the Upper Room, relieved that the new owner isn't a cult or a hippie co-op. Let the right living commence! We're all ready.