Made Of Honor. Marilynn Griffith
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down at my bare wedding finger. Maybe I needed to take my relationship with Jesus as seriously as Adrian had taken being with Sandy. And Jesus was still alive…
That’s deep.
Lugging the bag of chemicals into the hazardous materials cabinet, I strained to remember a thought that could be food for the devotionals I owed the Sistahood. Especially Tracey, whose new husband had not only declined to apologize for his physical and emotional absence on their honeymoon, but scheduled a series of out-of-town trips in the weeks following. And she was not invited to tag along.
A chime rang at the front as I emerged from the storage area. It’d taken Rochelle long enough to get the food. The deli was only a block away. She’d rejoined Weight Watchers with me enough times to know how cranky I could be on Week One, even if we were trying to do it on our own this time. I’d seen the I-can’t-believe-your-fat-self-is-here-again receptionist’s car on Saturday and peeled out like a wimp.
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