Although my commute to work is only seven minutes, I sometimes skip the trip back home for lunch and, thus, I land in the prayer garden at my church, with a salad and a glass of sweet tea.
It’s funny how people interpret that, for I’ve invited others to join me.
“Lunch in the prayer garden?” they repeat.
“No, I’m good,” they say, declining the invitation.
“No, I don’t want to interrupt,” another has admitted, as if I might chant or groan.