The brilliance of the World Methodist Conference is still shifting through my mind, light through a suncatcher hanging on a window. The days in Houston were color, sound, faces, laughter, weeping, worship, intensity, frustration, revelation. I met people and forgot names. I met people and remembered names. I saw textiles woven with Methodist patterns, saris shimmering, archbishop caps velvety and

What neighborhood, out of all the ones you’ve lived in, has been your favorite? Was it a quiet small town street lined with tall trees? Was it a bustling corner of a large, noisy city? Was it a distant, rural farm, the air scratched with the clucking of chickens? Was it a small cottage on the edge of the windy