They call me single. I suppose that’s because I am twenty-one, not married, and have lived on my own for nearly four years.

I’d successfully avoided it for several years, but on Labor Day, poison ivy caught up with me. As a result, I’ve spent most of this weekend in the house, legs covered in gauze bandages, staring out of the windows. It’s been a thrilling time.

This has been a rough year for gardening. Heat wave upon heat wave has rolled over the county, scorching everything that isn’t regularly watered. But despite the adverse weather and small harvest, I am already beginning to feel the familiar stirring that begins when fall is just around the corner.

If someone had told me four years ago that I’d be writing an essay supporting courtship, I would have laughed. Heck, if someone told me four months ago I still would have sincerely doubted it.

We must be willing to welcome people to dine with us, both in a spiritual sense and a practical one.

I always used to wonder what my mother did to make her meals taste so good. Now I know.

Since I’m off at college, it’s easy to feel distanced from my family. Interaction is sparse; there are no nightly family dinners or movie nights. But what does family really mean to me?