Seven children run through the backyard, arms waiving in the air and squealing. They pass under bare-armed apple trees, duck the lowest wispy switches. It is an evening of tag-you’re-it, and the children run under the spacious arms of stretching evening-pink that reach from the southwest. The older children bob and weave as the stump-legged youngest reaches out to touch the hem of any garment. Isaac pretends to trip, falls, and allows himself to be made it. He recovers, begins chasing his friend Anna, whose blonde hair flips wild as she turns her shoulders slender and ducks his swipe. There is nothing as hospitable as nature’s accommodation of children, I think. She is deep, and wide, and welcomes their chaos. Continue reading at Grace Table, where I'm writing about what it means to offer spacious hospitality.
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