texts from last Sunday…not, not those kind of texts…

heard the voice of a little boy, just a beat behind the congregation, yelling the Lord’s Prayer at the top of his lungs.  Adorbs.
That sermon was drier than the cookies at last week’s coffee hour. R u down for brunch? I’m still hungover.
Remember that time we had that smoking-hot, sexually-ambiguous, barn-burner preaching, totally hip priest?
         That wasn’t a priest–it was a beach hippie.
it’s so hard to know when no one dresses up, anymore…
this offertory is turrible…meet me for a donut in the parish hall?
got any you want to add?  email rachel!  rachelmgraves@gmail.com



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