At a morning retreat yesterday, I spoke with a woman who I often see on Sunday but have never met. She walks with some difficulty but always seems cheerful. Emboldened by the conviviality of the day, I reached out and commented on the lovely heathery rose color of her wool suit.
"I'm celebrating Laetare Sunday a day early," she said, laughing. Something about her deliberate choice of this color, about her caring that much, is what I'll remember most about the event.
I went to the retreat expecting wisdom from on high, from the prepared remarks of speakers. Instead, it was an ordinary interaction that made the day.