Sunday morning

It's Sunday morning. It's still early and very quiet.

One of the women I work with, Holly, went camping this week. It's a little cold to go camping yet, but she's young and is prepared for the adventure of freezing her rear off.

When you get old camping loses a lot of it's appeal, but I envy her this morning. I remember the routine. You crawl out of your sleeping bag, and shiver because it's just a little too cold, but somebody finally gets the fire going and it feels so good. You sip some hot chocolate because somebody else finally got the Coleman stove to work.

You talk in hushed voices, partly because you're not awake yet, partly because your neighbors aren't awake yet, and partly because it's so quiet it would seem sacrilegious to use more worldly tones.

One of the little kids wiggles out of a tent, blinks a few times, and curls up in your lap to steal your warmth and your chocolate. For a few minutes, all is right with the world and freezing your rear off seems like a good thing.