I am greeted by a heavenly aroma as I step into the house. Tilda has prepared a feast fit for a king's homecoming. I step quietly behind her, place one arm around her waist, and rest my head on her right shoulder.

"Darlin', you shouldn't have," I mutter.

Tilda pretends to be cross, in her usual way.

"It's never been about what I ought or ought not do, hon. It's about what I want to do."

I plant a kiss on her right cheek, and then survey all the worldly goods before me:

There is a large dish of yams; large slivers of onions poking out of the syrupy brown mound. A plate of cabbage and bacon sits beside a large plate piled high with squares of golden cornbread. A glass dish holds a bounty of steaming hot slices of ham. A bowl of collard greens is nestled between a teal colored bowl full of red beans and rice, and a lemon Bundt cake. And last, but certainly not least, a pitcher of iced tea--complete with carefully cut lemon slices.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

I give Tilda a quick recap of my meeting with Reverend Cox. As I expected, Tilda immediately offers to send the reverend and his ailing wife over a heavenly portion of food. Being married as long as we have, we know each other so well. I never even bothered to make the suggestion. Tilda's heart is always in the right place. I'm just grateful she lets me share it.

I make plans to take a few extra plates to the down-on-their-luck couple, kiss Tilda once more, then head to the bathroom. And a long, hot shower.

I think contented thoughts, as the steaming hot water washes away the aches, worries, and grime of the day.