My wife Christi does not know how to read a good book in moderation. Whenever she finds a good book, the rest of the world fades into oblivion. Now she’s reading Margaret George’s Henry VIII, and she is gone.
To win her back, I took her on a date last night. We got a baby sitter, went out for a drink at Java House, and watched Atonement at the local theater. It was a little surreal to think that while hundreds of thousands of refugees are stranded in camps weeping over their shattered lives, we’re living the high life, doing something any ordinary American might be doing at home. To add to the guilt, this is on day two of an all-week dry fast by our church’s pastoral staff and the day our house-helper Njeri took off work to cook food for refugees in Limuru (about an hour from here).
We thought Atonement was a good movie, but found the ending very French (at least it’s realistic.) This morning, I asked Christi what was her favorite part was, and she replied, “The last image of the older sister.”