We just returned from a church potluck. (That's my church, up there.) It's been years, I think, since I last attended a potluck. They're a Minnesota Lutheran staple so it seems borderline sacrilegious that I've had such a long hiatus. I've always loved them, growing up they were a frequent staple of our midwestern diet. To this day I still like Jello, not matter what color or how many different kinds of fruit you put in it. But more than the food, I love the community that manifests in the midst. This morning I sat at a table with two of my oldest dearest friends and their kids and couldn't help but take a deep blissful breath and feel like I had just ever-so-gently stepped into real life. As I looked about at the round crappy church tables, the mostly bent and out of shape folding chairs, and the excessively outdated decor of our church basement I realized I had come home...in a way I haven't felt since being a kid. In was in the midst of screaming kids, wrinkly grey haired women, men with really bad cardigans straight out of Mr. Rogers closet, and the friendliest faces I've ever seen and I couldn't imagine anywhere I'd rather be.