The man-made sanctuaries are closed, a new sign on the door. So we retreat to worship at home—the liturgy adapts to our new makeshift reality. We meet under a lopsided Mango tree in my mom’s backyard. The sea breeze has brushed all her branches over to make a filter for the late-morning sun. We mark time by watching the mangoes— the ones that survive the wind and the tree-climbing kids—get heavier. We sit in mismatched chairs. We take turns giving short sermons from a pulpit my uncle built from leftover wood. My sister-in-law conducts the meeting and plays hymns from her phone on a speaker accompanied by the rustling bamboo. After the meeting, the kids run free and the adults linger to debrief. The exact doctrines are carried away in the breeze, the last of this season’s mangoes have been eaten (juice dripping down our forearms) and I am still sustained by that fulsome memory of being at home at the feet of Our Parents, in the shade of their Love.