The 33rd Hour

We are 33 hours into our trip home from Uganda. Pavel and I have touched down in Minneapolis for one last layover - our sixth city since we left Kampala yesterday. Shawn is somewhere in the sky en route to Los Angeles, and Denver still seems impossibly far away. The snow outside this plane window is fake, staged for dramatic impact. In a moment I'll wake up, and Kenny will be cutting a pineapple. Edith will be poaching eggs, and Joan and Esther will peel carrots and shred cabbage. We'll gather in the kitchen to pray, and Mary will say "Friends, humble yourselves...."