This time, next week, one year ago, I arrived in Rome for the healing of my spirit.  I am certain that I also ate through a small grove of blood oranges.   I can’t say exactly what my attraction initially was so many years ago, except that they sounded exotic and dramatic to me as a young, fruit-deprived Minnesotan.  We grow great apples, but I was not a fan of apples until a couple years ago.

At this time, however, I think I’m getting a good grasp of the attraction.  When I open a blood orange, I am reminded how much deep, rich, blood runs in our fruit.  I mean, I know it’s not real blood in there, but those words get in my head as quick as the flesh of the orange gets to my stomach.  I am consumed, as I consume, with the thought that my blood, my life, is rich and deep and full of flavor.  And I am encouraged to share.