Come Over to My House

I don’t have formal dinners. While my husband and I love to host, we don’t entertain.

If you come to my house I will feed you, I will listen to your stories, and I will use pretty dishes.

If you come to my house, I hope you feel special. Welcomed. Eagerly anticipated.

Zach’s smoked pork butt is the best around, and I’ll offer you more than or helping.

Feel free to heap your plate high.

Dinner will be delicious.

But it won’t be complicated. It won’t be stuffy or formal.

It won’t be impressive.

I’m not here to impress you. We’re beyond that.

We’ll talk, maybe cry alittle, hopefully laugh a lot. Well eat good food, then get comfy on the couch to talk, maybe refill our glasses a few times. feel free to move the pillows on my couch to get comfortable, maybe curl up or tuck your feet under you.

We have nothing but time.

There’s nothing pressing. Nothing urgent.

There’s you and me. There’s relationship. Communion.

Would you like a glass of tea?

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