We sat together at a small urban table by the window, the leaves shuffling down the sidewalk like a fall parade led by the wind. And for two hours my hands stayed clasped around my mug, while Lisle’s hands moving freely through the space—painting pictures in my mind and sketches in her notebook—of this idea she could not name.

We talked about art, about the Spirit, about the church and what She needs. We talked about her training and my lack thereof. We talked about caffeine and seminary courses, and women in ministry. And all along, she was twirling.

 

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