I opened the Altima door in the driveway, reaching for the books and notes I had taken to church to teach the Sabbath School class. My available energy for the seventh day was all spent by 1:00 p.m.
But there they were, red and gemlike, suspended under a canopy of green leaves where my neighbor’s sidehill meets my more manicured lawn. I paused to revel in the rush of memories of other Sabbaths and other places, 400 miles away and 50 years ago.
Wild strawberries—not worth a thing to anyone serious about making shortcake or considering a pie—but still the most potent symbol of many happy Sabbath afternoons spent alone in the green …