On a round table laid with a neat cloth, they saw a blue vase of watermelon-colored crepe myrtle, and the result of Marion Fieldwalker's labors:
Fried perch, crisp and hot, on a platter. A pot of coffee, strong and fragrant. A pitcher of fresh orange juice. Cantaloupe, cut into thick, ripe slices. Biscuits mounded in a basket next to a golden round of cheese and a saucer of butter, with a school of jellies and preserves on the side.
"Homemade fig preserve," said Marion, pointing to the jam pots. "Raspberry jelly. Blueberry jam. And orange marmalade."
"Dearest, do you think it possible that yesterday in that brutal storm we somehow died, and are now in heaven?"
"Not only possible, but very likely!"
. . . Their hostess passed the platter of fried perch to Cynthia, as Sam passed the hot biscuits to his new priest.
Oh, the ineffable holiness of small things, he thought, crossing himself.
-- Jan Karon, A New Song