And I do hope you remember to include “honey” in the URL when you log in!

Was that the house where you played basketball in the attic? I still laugh when I remember you telling that story.

Thinking about all of the ‘eastern spirituality’ booths at veg fest reminds me of my senior year in college. It doesn’t really have anything to do with N.T. Wright or stewardship, but reminiscing will give me a break from staring at my research all night. After waiting until the last minute to procure housing, my friend and I landed a room in a house rented by several - we’ll say - ‘earth mother enthusiasts.’ For weeks, the house was empty except for the two of us every Monday around dinnertime. It was late fall when we finally got around to asking them where they went every Monday evening. It turns out that the Chapel Hill ‘chapter’ (?) of the Hare Krishna served dinner to the public in the commons room of one of the freshman dorms every week.

The following Monday, all seven of us housemates struck out into the cold November air with bowls and spoons in hand, heading for free dinner. This would be my first personal encounter with the Hare Krishnas, and I was trying to keep stereotype of incessant chanters out of my mind - you know, to give them a fair shake as regular folks. We must have missed the blessing, because people were already being served when we arrived. We joined the queue and I gathered all of my courage in preparation to simultaneously give ear to anything the shaven food-servers might have to say to me and respond with the appropriate ‘Christian’ perspective. Needless to say I was a nervous wreck by the time I stepped up to be served (the whole robe thing juxtaposed against the dorm’s holiday decorations put me on considerable edge).

Silently I held out my bowl, and silently I was ladled some sort of steaming broth. The second guy likewise silent dropped some sort of cabbage into my bowl. The tension was unbearable; were they under a vow of silence? I moved to the end of the table and the third devotee held out a piece of bread. I was probably sweating from anxiety as I looked around at the holly wreaths on the walls and wondered whether the soup contained mind-altering agents. As I reached out and took hold of the bread, the fellow muttered a nearly indiscernable four-syllable phrase. Trying to remember what I was doing there, I blurted out, to the chagrin of my housemates, the single reply my mind could rationalize: “Merry Christmas.”

I didn’t eat with the Hare Krishnas again, but I think about that meal for different reasons from time to time. I don’t think they put anything ‘funny’ in the soup.