Last weekend presented more of the same. Friday night an angelic friend was in town, from the land of Virginia, playing a show in Brooklyn. The music was heavenly and we all held hands and raised our heads to the sky, shouting out praises to our redeemer. Later, we rejoiced and shared stories about footprints in the sand and revelations of hard times that have since passed. Much later that night, I headed back to Manhattan, where I had a meeting with an apostle underneath a lamppost on the corner of Rivington and Orchard. Saturday morning was reserved for healing and praying to my saviors, all of them. I had the pleasure of speaking to a long distance saint and all of our sins were washed away in the vastness of that great wide ocean. And then I prayed some more and met up with a local saint for another prayer group and we snacked on those little crackers that you put on your knees and we drank wine for communal purposes only. Sunday morning, I woke up early and decided to call everybody I have ever resented and mend every bridge I have ever burned. But nobody was home and that isn't the kind of thing you want to leave on a voicemail. Sunday afternoon, I hunted around the isle of my newly adopted city, with my beloved missionaries, looking for Easter eggs that were buried in the concrete and we held engaging conversations with statues in Central Park. Then I went home and prayed some more with my divine roommate, even though she has yet to realize that Godliness is next to cleanliness.