Sunday nights have been set aside. We have stumbled through two years of finding sitters, preparing meals, and rushing {the Marrs’ are perpetually running late, it’s our thing} to show up by 5 o’clock.
Each week, one of us opens our home and the others arrive bearing salad or bread or brownies. The kitchen becomes a flurry of activity and lighthearted chatter as we work around one another reaching for plates, stirring pots of soup, or pouring drinks. We share a meal while catching up on the new home or the teething baby or the teen going off to college in a few weeks.
These evenings have become sacred. We have walked through the storms of life together, we have celebrated together, we have prayed mightily for one another. Within the safety of four walls and these people, tender stories have been shared. We have laughed and cried and sang and rejoiced. These evenings can’t be manufactured. The deep well of friendship that exists among these people, my people, is as real as anything I’ve ever experienced.
This is a portion of a guest post written for AWB. Hop on over to the Arkansas Women Bloggers’ site in order to read this post in it’s entirely.
