Sometimes you’re kind of wandering in the desert for forty years on an all-chips-in journey following a promise.
And sometimes the journey looks like a year and half in your childhood home somewhere in suburbia living as a family of five in your Mom’s upstairs.
Of course, there’s manna. And it’s healthy. And it’s sustaining. And it even tastes good. But it’s not exactly the milk and honey you’ve been dreaming of, you know, that for which you wander.
But, then, other times. Yes! Other times you just cross the Jordan in a day. The manna stops. And by supper time you’re eating Passover in the promised land.
And sometimes the promised land is paved with linoleum and unintentionally grey carpet, and is two bedrooms large in a foggy burg called San Francisco.
And so here we are.
Just like that.