Weekdays. One house, two kids, a new job — and the oldest playbook of all.

Comics

Home Court

Between the weekend showdowns at Covenant Courts, there's a small green house where the real matches happen: bedtime negotiations with a toddler, a six-year-old's masterpiece taped to every wall, a schedule that only one person in the family can actually read, and a brand-new sales job after eighteen years of mastering brine. Home Court follows Dill, Olive, Cori, and Bud through the weekday battles everyone knows — first-day nerves, meltdowns in aisle seven, invisible work, honest choices when shortcuts glitter — each one lit by a Bible story retold in today's world: same God, same principles, modern parking lots. Because the truths that part seas and shut lions' mouths also work in open-plan offices and grocery stores, and the most important court Dill will ever play on has a kitchen in the middle of it.

A new issue drops every week.

Meet the cast

Dill

Husband, dad of two, and the newest salesman at the office after eighteen years as a brine master. He spent all those technical years holding back half of himself; now he's discovering that reading people, loving change, and growing on purpose were the gifts all along. Still curious, still strategic, still never gives up — and still learning that the boldest court is the one at home.

Olive

The calm center of the whole operation. Deeply empathic and rigorously logical at the same time, Olive runs the house, the chores, the calendar, and the emotional weather — usually before anyone notices it was about to storm. Super mom is not a compliment she asked for; it's just the job description she quietly exceeds every day.

Cori

Six years old, drawing since she could hold anything that makes a mark, and a social butterfly who lights up every room she enters. Cori has more friends than the fridge has magnets to hold their portraits, a kind heart the size of the neighborhood, and exactly zero bad days that a new box of crayons can't fix.

Bud

Two and a half. Just started childcare. Loves puzzles, cars, monster trucks, and construction vehicles, in that order and sometimes all at once. Quiet, fiercely independent, and currently starring in his own ongoing series: The Terrible Twos. Negotiations are ongoing. The truck is non-negotiable.

Issue #11

The New Guy

Based on Moses at the burning bush, retold — who am I to speak? (Exodus 4:12)

Dawn in the kitchen: Dill in a crisp new shirt and lanyard stares at his reflection in the toaster while Olive checks the family planner, Cori draws at the table, and Bud stacks pancakes like construction blocks.

Day one. After eighteen years of brine mastery, Dill had a new title, a new lanyard, and a stomach doing third-shot drops.

Dill: I regulated fermentation tanks for eighteen years. How hard can PEOPLE be?

Olive: You have your notebook, your lunch, and your whole self. Take all three today.

Flashback panel in sepia: young-adult Dill in a lab coat and goggles alone among giant gleaming brine tanks, clipboard in hand, precise and content and slightly walled-off.

For eighteen years the tanks never asked him how he felt. He'd liked that about them. Mostly.

Dill: pH perfect. Salinity perfect. Conversations required: zero.

The new office: a bright open-plan sales floor where a friendly manager waves Dill toward a desk, coworkers glancing up with curiosity, Dill clutching his notebook like a shield.

The sales floor had no tanks. Just faces. Rows and rows of faces, every one of them running on chemistry he'd never charted.

Manager: Team, meet Dill! Eighteen years technical side — he knows the product better than the founders!

Dill: (The product never blinked at me.)

The assignment lands: the manager hands Dill a folder as a wall screen shows a big client meeting slot for Friday; Dill's face cycles through honor and terror.

Then Friday happened to him. The Hendricks account. The one the whole quarter leaned on. His pitch.

Manager: You know this product's soul, Dill. Just tell them what you told me at lunch.

Dill: At lunch I was holding a sandwich. It's a whole support system.

That night in the dim kitchen, Dill rehearses to a lineup of condiment jars and slumps; through the window glow, Olive watches from the doorway with the family Bible under her arm.

The kitchen heard the pitch eleven times that night. The ketchup remained unconvinced. So did he.

Dill: Who am I kidding, Liv? They're getting a brine guy in a sales shirt.

Olive: Funny. There was once a shepherd who said almost exactly that.

Olive and Dill at the kitchen table with the Bible open; a dream-cloud shows a modern retelling — a man in work clothes stopped in a parking lot before a glowing bush growing through the asphalt.

She read him the oldest first-day-of-work story there is: a man with forty years of sheep on his resume, arguing with a bush that refused to burn out.

Olive: 'Go, and I will be with your mouth, and teach you what you shall speak.' God didn't send a better talker. He went WITH him.

Dill: So the plan isn't 'stop being me.' The plan is... company.

“Now therefore go, and I will be with your mouth, and teach you what you shall speak.” — Exodus 4:12 (WEB)

Morning of the pitch: at the front door Cori presses a crayon drawing into Dill's hand — a stick-figure Dill with a huge smile and a sun — while Bud solemnly offers his monster truck.

The family sent him off with the two most powerful objects in the house.

Cori: It's you WINNING, Daddy. I drew it already so it has to happen. That's how drawings work.

Dill: Bud... the truck? Buddy, are you sure?

The conference room: mid-pitch disaster as the projector dies and the slides vanish; stern clients frown while Dill freezes, hand in his pocket finding the toy truck.

Slide four. The projector quit. The room went the exact temperature of a walk-in cooler he used to know.

Client: We've seen forty decks this month. Is there anything NOT on a slide?

Dill: ...Actually. Yes. Eighteen years of it.

Dill sets the toy monster truck on the conference table and talks like himself at last — animated, warm, reading the room — sketching the product story on the whiteboard as clients lean in, one smiling despite herself.

So he closed the laptop and did the thing he'd hidden for eighteen years: he read the room, and then he talked to the people in it.

Dill: Forget slides. My son sent his best truck as collateral, so here's the truth about what this thing does when nobody's presenting it.

Client: ...Go on.

Evening at home: shoes off at the door, Dill lifts both kids as Olive raises the planner in triumph; on the fridge, Cori's winning drawing now hangs center among the magnets, truck back in Bud's grip.

He didn't come home with a signed deal. He came home with a second meeting, his whole self, and the truck. Two of those were the actual miracle.

Dill: Turns out the mouth works fine when Someone goes with it.

Olive: Noted in the planner: 'Day five. Dill showed up. All of him.'

The moral

Moses managed sheep for forty years, then argued with a burning bush that he was the wrong pick because he wasn't a talker. God didn't fix his resume; He promised to go with his mouth. Eighteen years of brine taught Dill everything except how to believe the other half of himself. New callings rarely feel like qualifications. Go anyway — the One who calls you writes the talking points.