Joyce set aside her menu, she already knew what she wanted; her girlfriend was still deciding.

After the wait-person brought their beverages, the two somehow got to talking about books, then authors.

"You like WHO??"

"Yeah, why?"

"Wouldn't read a single page from...that"!

"Okay..."

"You know, apparently, he doesn't like women."

"Huh?  But he's married." Joyce added a splash vinegar to her salad, then added, "and it seems, happily...yeah, I know, that doesn't happen too much."

Both women assented to that.

"Joyce," her friend looked up from the roll she was buttering, "Ohio is one of those..." a sneer took shape in her friend's face, "who despises american women, we're not good enough."

Joyce suppressed saying, the same thing could be said about american men - such a statement could be taken out of context.

"Carla, have you ever met one...from anywhere, that was?"

Both women giggled.  For Joyce, however, her mirth was but a screen.  She really didn't want people to know that she thought feminism was a bunch of bunk - and even back in the day, she'd had her doubts.  Oh yeah, some unresolved issues.  Those harpies LIED at her - ALOT.  Wow, what if she'd been run over by a truck and DIED believing the Scriptures were but a means to suppress...Enough on all that, Joyce was free in Christ, and free people can enjoy their tuna melt sandwich with a side of mac salad, and a pickle slice.  

Came that nudge.  The subject was on it's way into an area that was best, skirted around.

"Where is your family from?"

Oh nice move, Joyce.  Carla's people, on both sides, came from a certain nation, involved in the conflict.

"Yours?"

"Over there somewhere."  A truthful statement, because Joyce didn't really know, or care.  Her dad had taken off, when Joyce was in like 5th grade.  And mom had had too much to deal with, and no time - nor spirit - to do mom things.  Joyce had basically felt more in the way, than anything.  'k, enough...what's done is done.  And anyway, Joyce had Family now - Family that counted.  Family in Jesus Christ.

So, how do you tell people?  Come off like some tract?  Written by someone who'd grown up hearing granddad's stories?  Grown up singing that hymn around a campfire, about some unbroken circle?  Joyce didn't know that many hymns, and frankly, they were unfamiliar to her.  But she sure did like those old puritan ones from like the 1600s.  They sounded so...regal, kingly.  

But outside of church, you can't go around saying stuff like that.  It was like people were just waiting for you to say something they could spin.  Oh wait, she recalled to herself, that's somewhere in Psalms.

But hardly anyone outside of her church family even mentioned a Psalm, or any other Book in the Bible.

Was frustrating. Was like the only topics you could discuss, without getting snarled up, were the boring ones.  Ones like, who's staring in ... bluuck.  Joyce had never kept up with that sort of crap anyway.  And fashions?  Forget that!  What was the point in wearing skimpy, overpriced stuff that you froze in all winter, and sweated, like a pig, in summer.  And hurt your feet?

Our half-sized saint wore comfortable tees, jeans and sneakers - and boots in winter.