Massachusetts

Yesterday afternoon Mitch called the school.
"What are you doing tonight?" he asked. "Would you like to go out for dinner?"
(These are words I love to hear.)
We ended up at the Nile, this tiny, incense-filled Greek restaurant that has amazing falafels and spanakopitas. While we were waiting for our food, Mitch pulled some papers from his pocket.
"I brought something for us to play," he said. "Do you want to play a game?"
(I am always up for games.)
"Okay. Each of these papers represent a sound," he explained.
Like a rebus, I thought, and looked at the first picture he laid out. The pope?
"No, but what do popes go to?"
"Mass?"
"Exactly."
The pictures he laid out were these: the Pope (Mass), a pouch of snuff or (chu)ing tobacco, and a (set) of tools. Massachusetts has been on my mind. Easy. Then he spread out the rest: tents (camp), a runner (win)ning a race, and (a keg) of beer. I hope that one never gets out. Here, honey, think of a beer keg. But honestly, how else could he have played it?
A couple months back, we applied for a job at Camp Winnekeag (assistant ranger and assistant cook). We visited near the end of April, and May 15 was the final decision date. Somewhat nervously we prayed for God's will. I was tempted to check Mitch's email yesterday, and almost did, but God asked me not to. "Let Mitch tell you himself," was the thought that came into my mind. Well, okay, I said, and closed the window.
Now here Mitchell was playing games, and when we hadn't heard yet!
Then, from his jacket pocket, he pulled out another piece of paper. It was white, with words typed in black. "We extend to you a welcome..."
God, what are You doing? I started to cry. Looking up, I saw tears in Mitch's eyes.
"Looks like we'll be heading east," he grinned.