At Home in Mitford

I just started re-reading the Mitford series by Jan Karon and am in love with them all over again. Mitford is the quaint small town of my dreams, nestled in a hanging valley 'tween mountain tops. The story focuses on the 60 year old bachelor Father Tim, an Anglican priest, although some of the second best characters are the town's variety of odd, eccentric, ordinary and not-so-ordinary folks whose antics will leave you laughing out loud. Here is a description of the town:

"Mitford," observed a travel feature by a prominent newspaper, "is a village delightfully out of step with contemporary America. Here, where streets are named for flowers, and villagers can seek the shade of a dozen fragrant rose arbors, spring finds most of the citizenry, including merchants, making gardens. And while Mitford's turn-of-the-century charm and beauty attract visitors like bees to honeysuckle, the town makes a conscious effort to discourage serious tourism."

and here is an excerpt from a chapter I was reading this morning that I enjoyed:

      "As he [Father Tim] almost never had unexpected company in the evening, he hardly knew how to proceed. A drink? Didn't people offer drinks? Well, he didn't have any to offer. It would have to be sherry, perhaps, or tea, and a plate of... what? Shortbread.
       Giving himself time to think it through, he took Barnabas to the rear hedge, leaving his neighbour happily inspecting his bookshelves.
      When he returned, she was sitting on the study sofa, pouring over a book of lectures by Oswald Chambers and appearing oddly at home among the jumble of worn needlepoint pillows.
       She looked up, quoting the Scottish teacher who happened to be one of his favourite writers. "Faith by it's very nature must be tried," he says. Do you agree?" 
      He sat down in his wing chair, suddenly feeling more at home with his company. "Aboslutely!" 
      "I've never been one for physical exercise," she said, "but what God does with our faith must be something like workouts. He sees to it that our faith gets pushed and pulled, stretched, and pounded, taken to its limits so its limits can expand." 
      He liked that - taken to its limits so its limits can expand. Yes!
     "If it doesn't get exercised," she said thoughtfully, "it becomes like a weak muscle that fails us when we need it."
      He felt himself smiling foolishly, though his questions was serious. "Would you agree that we must be willing to thank God for every trial of our faith, no matter how severe, for the great strength it produces?       
       "I'm perfectly willing to say it, but I'm continually unable to do it." 
      "There's the rub!"
      When he went to the kitchen to make a second pot of tea, he was astounded to find that it was eleven o'clock. That hardly anyone in Mitford stayed up until eleven o'clock was common knowledge."

*Taken from "At Home in Mitford" by Jan Karon