Greg lets me out of the house every now and then. As it happens, I don’t care to leave too often. Everything I love most is right here, though I haven’t always known this.

Last night we engaged a babysitter and left for a quiet dinner on the pier, just the two of us. Before there were seven, there were two. (Not for long, though.) As we approached the beach, dozens of surfers were leaving as the sun was going down. Some were in wetsuits and some wore only shorts. The surf was impressive, as was the weather. I miss Florida and we haven’t even left yet.

There are a few restaurants on the Cocoa Beach pier. We chose the one with salt water tanks and nice views of the waves. The bands outside were gearing up—fifty-something-year-old men in flip flops, Hawaiian shirts, and guitars. They are the rock stars who play for tips in plastic Solo cups, recently emptied of beer and dreams.

I ordered shrimp scampi and Greg had the catch-of-the-day, which was tuna. I thought tuna only came in a can. Greg talked about work and told me a funny story. His buddy went squirrel hunting with his son. They didn’t catch anything. On the way home, they ran over—guess what– a squirrel. This was funny to me, but I thought it was more humorous that we were talking about it. Usually Greg just forwards me his friend’s email.

We left without ordering dessert. On our way out, we stopped to watch some fishermen and to listen to Soul Man. (I’m a soooul man. I’m a soooul man.) The keyboard guy played with one hand. The next song, he was the lead singer and guitar player. I’m certain his versatility was due to good music theory during childhood piano lessons. Piano players are a good breed.

We drove home slowly even though our babysitter was still on-the-clock. Today is another day. We added fig and plum trees to our “orchard.” I will rehearse music for tomorrow’s service, and when that is done, we will eat, play, and work some more.