To the marriage of heaven and earth, all are invited: and the invitations never stop coming. Like the letters from Hogwarts to Harry, the deckle edge cards are flowing through the letterbox, pouring down the chimney, pattering against the window and sliding under the door. We find the invitations tucked into our hunger for a bigger story, our yearning to belong, our thirst for healing; there’s one in the hand of every person who asks for a cup of cold water ... (PS: There's no fiery hell.)
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