On most Sunday nights, my neighbor from across the street rides to church with me in Jackson where our small Episcopal mission meets in a space sectioned off from an old furniture warehouse a few blocks from the Old Capitol Museum. Most nights it’s just us, her son whom she drops off earlier in the afternoon for the youth meeting, and Father Chuck, our vicar. After finishing a six-month-long study of the book of Mark, we spent the last few weeks just talking about whatever was on our minds. The lack of direction tended to lead to rambling, but I really enjoyed listening to the other three debate whatever topic because their combined intelligence is through the roof. I feel like a complete dunderpate while listening to them.