There are a thousand things I could say about the generative weekend I just spent with a hundred other women (and a handful of brave dudes) at a retreat center on the Nebraska plains. For now, mostly, I will hold them close and quiet. Except for this.
Imagine: Every time there is prayer, you reach out and hold the hand of the woman next to you — old friend, new friend, friend you haven’t met yet.
Every time, after a few seconds, you feel the pulse, pulse, pulse of a heartbeat in your hand.
Impossible to tell them apart.