After dinner, rest a while; after supper, walk a mile—hold on, which one is supper? Is that lunch, or is it actually dinner? Whenever people use the word “supper,” I always think they’re from some strange part of America that I’ve never visited, someplace with pastures and barns, maybe, where everyone knows everybody and the air smells fresh and people are honest and good. I guess I wish I lived there. I never walk after any meals.
The Believer is coming home
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