[overheard while Sullivan and Éa build a precarious fort]:

Éa: Sully, did you just swear!?
Sullivan: What!? No!
Éa: No really, Sully, did you say the S word?
Sullivan: No! Only Mom does that!

Oh my gosh. Jesus.

— Carla

“Emotional support feels terrible.”

— Carla

Scott: So, Sullivan what laws of physics do you know?
Sullivan: Newton’s laws of physics!
Éa: Nudists know all physics?

You know what Miss Leigh calls a picture? “Pitcher.” Picture. Pitcher. She’s a very complicated woman.

— Éa, on a quirk of her teacher’s pronunciation

Carla: Sullivan, you have to take a shower. I don’t want to hear any more whining about it. Get in there.
Sullivan [walking away into the bathroom]: Aw, maaan! Fuck. Fuck fuck.
Carla: Sullivan, what did you just say?
Sullivan: Haha! I didn’t want to say “shucks” so I disguised it by saying “puck”—or no wait: “fuck.” Yeah, that was it.

I remind myself how much richer a reading experience is when it is read aloud. I missed Ahab’s boat in Moby Dick; I’m not going to miss Licona’s resurrection train.

Could a fellow charismatic humor my perhaps fussy inner lexicographer? I’m looking for a definition of “enter in.”

I ask because I’m generally suspicious of phrases in Christian circles whose meaning would not be immediately apparent to outsiders. “Enter in” strikes me as an example of the clichéd, mystical argot that helps to maintain power structures and in-group, out-group distinction in an organization. The first way to neuter such a phrase’s abusive possibilities is to provide a clear definition for it.

As far as I can tell, among Bible translations the phrase is unique to King James, and it never occurs in the context we hear it now: Congregational singing. What’s more, it’s redundant—that is, drop the word “in” and the phrase would, at face value, mean the same thing. The problem with that, however, is that we often use “enter in” without prepositional object, and if the guy at the microphone were to say simply “Enter!” during singing time (pause for a moment to picture it), the mysticism of the directive would, I think, be even more apparent.

So, what are we saying when we say, “Enter in”?

In the Clover Highlands during my prayer-walk today, I came away with this: The people in front of you at any given moment are the most interesting, fascinating people in the world. Certainly more interesting than myself. Act—and listen—accordingly.

Carla [upon delivery of Éa’s dessert at Sips Bistro]: Bon appétit!
Éa [correcting her]: Bon appé-YUM!

Scott: Éa, would you mind if I put on some tunes?
Éa: Yeah.
Scott [to clarify]: Should I put on some tunes?
Éa: Yeah.
Scott: Any objections anyone?
Éa: Tunes! But don’t put on any objections!

Hey, it was definitely hard, but I really enjoyed spending time with you this evening.

— Scott, to Carla

Carla: It’s 7:57.
Scott: What!? Already?
Carla: I know. Like, what the fUuuuuuUuuck? [moment of silence] Sometimes I say that just to assert my adulthood.

“How you say Thanksgiving in French is … ‘Franksgiving.’”

— Sullivan, giving his parents language lessons in the car on our way downtown

Sullivan: What’s Mama doing?
Scott: What do you think she is doing?
Sullivan: She is wiping that hanger thinger linger.
Scott: Well, that’s a very good name for it. But most people call it a curtain rod.
Sullivan: Yes…but I’d prefer to call it a hanger thinger linger. OR…a hanger wanger sanger.

Dave: I didn’t realize buffalo was a verb.
Carla: Yeah, it means to bully.
Dave: Yes, I gathered that from the context.