Welcome to the Kinkade Palace.

I honestly don't know how I possibly could have missed it. It's big. It's cottage-y. It has glowing windows and sunny rays all over the trickling, sparkling brook. It has a sunset that maybe even God couldn't paint.

But somehow I missed it, till KMK quietly said, 'Um. Now, who do we have above the couch?'

Thomas Kinkade, folks. That's who we have above the couch.
And that is why, in my head, I will never refer to my new home as anything less than the Kinkade Palace.

Today is my one-week anniversary of living in the KP -- and let me tell you, it has been a glorious week. Here are a few reasons:

Day 1 commute: 8:08-8:19 am/5:43-5:52 pm
Matisyahu in Call and Response
Spout Run is pretty
Me and Bluebucks were reunited
My new built-ins are full of books
MJCP lives around the corner now
In Russia, my room would be housing three generations; it's just that big
At church, the pastor listed great heroes of the faith as being, 'Wilberforce, Mother Theresa, Haugen...'
The KP's lighthouse motif*
The communion server at TFC**

I keep finding myself saying (in my head, duh) '---aaaand, she's back.' That's how I feel: back. The dust is settling and I'm shaking some of it off my shoulders and I'm shifting into adventure mode and it's a place I love to be. Back means you're revisiting what was and back means being open to the life that's on it's way.

I'm so glad to be back. And I'm so glad to be living in the shadow of the Kinkade.


*Includes key rack, three framed prints and the most amazing bedside lamps in modern history. One switch lights up the lighthouse cutouts only, two switches the bulb only, three switches both. I generally stick with one switch because it's awesome.

**The sermon was about how church-people often turn people off to the church -- and was highlighted by this order-loving parishioner. When the man in front of me reached into her little silver bowl of communion wafers (probably was Baptist or used to pass-the-plate communion), she snapped. In a loud whisper, she commanded, 'Sir. Could you PLEASE fold your hands? Thank you.' I almost wondered if she'd been planted to prove a point about the sermon, but either way, her little interlude made my Sunday.