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The "Festival of Faith and Writing" at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan is a bi-annual tradition, beloved by writers and readers from around the world.
It is a place to gather for celebrating that which connects us; our faith and the written word. It has become my adult version of the summer camp I attended as a kid. I see dear friends from the past and I make new ones. In this environment, we all share the common appreciation for the work and the soul journey of the writer and we come here to love on each other. It's glorious.

I share with you here, a taste of my favorite memory:

In her first session, as the festival participants were walking in, finding their seats, and getting settled, I looked up and saw this woman reciting a Robert Frost passage into the microphone. I didn't pay much attention to it or to her, until I quickly saw that she had this instant and automatic control of the room. People stopped their bustling around to listen. Frankly, I thought she was just one of the college student volunteers getting the stage ready. When she noticed we were all paying attention to her, she quickly retorted back, "Oh, I'm not saying anything of consequence. I'm just doing a sound check. If you're looking for consequence, I'm not your guy."
We all laughed.
She walked away.
That was it.
I thought nothing of it really other than, "Who is that girl? She's darn funny. Bring her back whoever she is, cuz I'm tiring quickly of listening to a lot of these authors who can't public speak their way out of a, well you know."

So, the session began and that same girl approached the podium.
We were aghast.
It was her.
It was that cute, small, cowboy boot wearin' clever chick who commanded the room when she wasn't even trying to say anything of "consequence". By then, I was glued; hanging on her every word. Now mind you, up until that point, I had never even heard of Kate DiCamillo, let alone read anything she had written. I was just there on a random trip to somewhere else. Turns out, the way God is and how His plan is orchestrated, it wasn't random at all. My being there was a divine appointment. I needed to be there. I needed Kate. I needed the spirit she brought. We all did.

You see, a lot of authors can't public speak.
And, a lot of public speakers can't write.
I'm a trained actor, public speaker, and a school teacher. I'm one of those people who isn't as convinced about what you communicate in writing until you can convince me of the truth when you talk to me. So, I sniff that stuff out right away. Just before her session, I had been in the large assembly listening to one of those best selling authors whose head was so buried in his notes, and whose voice was strikingly similar to a grumbly old man dying of emphysema on his last two breaths, that my patience had worn thin already. And it was only day one.
He was literally singing rows and rows of people to sleep.
Isn't the job of an author to connect with his reader?
Don't you think? This man was worlds away from the possibility. So, when I heard the first utterings from Kate, it was as if I had taken a bath in a cool spring after crossing the finish line of a marathon. I wanted to gather all the authors in the festival and have them sit and watch her, cuz SHE GETS IT.

Her actual speech was concise and brief. You could see she was more interested in talking with us then to us, so she wanted to get the formal part over and done as soon as possible.
I timed her.
About 15 minutes.
And she was done.
Then she opened it up for the infamous Q and A. I rose my hand immediately.
I was compelled to speak. I stood to my feet with an enthusiastic certainty and just paused, looking at her. It was a long pause. I think she thought it was a confrontational pause. I could see her preparing a defense.
Oh no. Not at all. I had to gain my footing to speak my mind as confidently as I was about to speak it. And the only way to get the grounding I needed was to mix the deepest prayer of my heart with a look into her eyes. And let the silence work its magic.
"Turns out, you do have something of consequence to say," I said.
"It is the writer's primary job to connect to the soul of the reader. You have done that. And that unique combination of being able to connect with the spoken as well as the written word is a rare and precious gift. You possess them both. Thank you. I've never even heard of you before, but I'm a reader now. You said more in your self admitted "inconsequence", than many authors and speakers will say in an entire career."
Or something like that.
Maybe a little is lost in the translation, but you get the point.
The tears welled up in her eyes. She didn't seem to want to let herself cry, yet she dearly appreciated what I recognized in her. I wondered what story might be lurking beneath her tenderness. The crowd clapped.
I kept standing there looking at her.
We just let the moment be. It was a kind of balm to all of us.

So, I followed her the rest of the conference. And like the Pied Piper, I brought fence squatters and the marginally impressed to hear her again and stand in her book signing line. During her last speech, which was designed as an interview, I had prepared a speech of my own to deliver, in case she opened the floor up for questions.
And again, I had to speak.
I raised my hand.
She smirked as she saw me waving my arm in the distance.
She called on me.
I was shaking in my cowboy boots. I wear them too.
I knew I was risking a lot to share my heart, but I did it, cuz I had to.
For me, I had to. For her, I had to. For us, I had to.

"I know her," she spoke into the microphone.
Everyone laughed.
And again, I just stood there in the silence, looking at her.
I was going for that footing again.
I wonder what the audience was thinking. Many of the same folks from last time, were sitting there.
I pulled out my tattered copy of "Charlotte's Web" and read the moving quote about Wilbur's gratitude for all that Charlotte had done for him. How he wondered why she did it. Saved his life and all. He didn't really do anything for her. And Charlotte humbly responded, "You have been my friend and that in itself is a tremendous thing."
With the bold assertion that I was standing in the company of a host of people who'd agree with me, I declared that Kate had been that for us. A friend.
Our "souls were lifted a trifle", just like Wilbur's. Just like Charlotte's.
And so I simply spoke the honest to God truth in that vast arena about my raw experience.
I trusted that God would land in the hearts of each of the truths we needed to hear from the gift that Kate had been to us.

Her tears flowed again.
The crowd cheered.
Not really sure what they were cheering about, but I'd like to think it was because I was speaking their mind to her.
I was just being a messenger for all of them... acting on the Lord's guiding to fill the world with beautiful.

I had to rush out to get to an audition, so I grabbed my things to go as soon as I spoke my last word.
The emotion was overwhelming. From me to Kate.
From me to the audience. Maybe from the audience to me. Maybe from Kate to me. I'm not sure. It was just one of those slices of time I will always treasure.
A piece of heaven for all of us.

And here I am.
Back in my house folding laundry, sorting through papers, dreaming about what's next, and living gracefully in what is. And in all of it, my soul is swollen with joy because I kid you not, "it grew two sizes that day".

Tonight was a night I started looking forward to the second I marked it on my calendar, yet with a bittersweet anticipation, I dreaded its coming. Life is like that. Moments you can hardly wait to live out and yet fear their inevitable arrival. Time plays tricks on us. We want the moment we're in to hurry-up and get over with so we can get to another one. Then, when that one comes, we long for the one that's gone.

As is my typical Wednesday routine, I went to church. I pulled into the parking lot and stumbled out of my car with a somber gait. I'm a noticer anyway, but this time, as I walked toward the entrance, I seemed to observe every pebble in the cracked pavement, every barren branch on the trees, and every crookedly parked car. Though the brilliant spring sunlight exploded the sky, I saw it as an interruption to my private pain. My daughter looked up with an awkward but comforting smile and grabbed my hand, sensing something was different. I smiled back, with eyes full of tears. She was singing to herself and talking about the day, and what she wanted to eat when we got home, and I wasn't listening. Quite frankly, I didn't care. I was lost in a world of my own.

This was the last night our pastor would be with us.
He's moving away and I hate it.

I know what it feels like for him. I remember watching my Dad fight the onslaught of emotions that went with moving away from one church and starting another one. He would be tormented at the same time he was thrilled. I watched him weep over stories he wouldn't get to finish with people, yet feel a sweet relief that someone else was going to walk in his tracks, so he could make new ones. In the days before we took the last pictures off the wall and sealed the last of the boxes, Dad would tenderly approach me with a permission on his face, to see if I was okay with the decision he made to pull me away from my school, my friends, my sure footing. I would cry and ask why. He would hold me and cry too. I trusted him, even though I was terrified.
I wonder if Curt is feeling that way now. His children are small, but their struggle may be the same, even if just a little bit.

So, I was thinking about all this, reliving some of the most poignant memories of my childhood before I even opened the church door. Imagine what was ahead.

Then, the service started. This time some lamps and a rug decorated the stage. A few back-up singers, a shiny grand piano, a bar stool and one lone microphone with him sitting there, holding his guitar as if it was his dearest friend. My tears never stopped. I was caught somewhere between my childhood and an Amy Grant concert... between my deepest hurts and my greatest joys. Tonight was a night of stories and songs, where the preaching would be delivered through song lyrics and silent prayers, through warm smiles and memories of lives lived together in rich community. I wanted to be in this space. I needed to be in this space. It hurt. But, I loved it.

I just started coming to this church for a mid-week boost. I come alone. I sit alone. I use this time to invite Jesus to my quiet places and remind me of my inestimable value. I don't even know much about what goes on here other than these Wednesday nights, but what happens for me when I sit here transcends into every corner of my life. It heals what is so broken. It covers what feels naked. It wraps itself in a present just for me. And Curt has become this mysterious gift; a messenger of truth; a hug from the Savior. What will I do when its gone. Embarrassed that I feel this way, but I do.

So the songs came. Each one reminding me of the hope I have.

And then, I looked in the front pew at his wife. I know what she feels like too. I watched my Mom sit there. I lived out her story as well... her pride in her husband, her pain in her own unfinished business, her packing of another house wondering if what she has in cupboards here will fit in the cupboards there, her agony in taking the children to a new place and wondering how they'll weather the transition, her brave front, her rock solid faith. Oh, how powerful it was to live my life looking at a Mom like that and now to look at Jen carrying a similar torch. Stunning.

And what was most beautiful, was to look at Jenn looking at Curt.
I think this must be what heaven is. Delight in each other and confidence of the future. They were a picture of it. I wanted to trap that moment forever. She sings along with her man, laughing at his jokes and worn out tales as if she's hearing them for the first time. She has an expectancy on her face that he will articulate a new truth and bring her a new hope, even if the words are the same. She has a trust that is blind to whatever has been broken and hopes for whatever is to come. I know this is true about her. I know it for sure.

And then I thought about me. There I was.
Taking it all in. Sobbing. Worshipping. Hoping. Dreaming.
Sitting next to my Mom. She came with me this time.
We sat in that picture together and remembered together.
Our story. Their new story.
Knowing now, God does see us through. We do make it.
There is enough of Him to bring us to a new place.

Then, I thought about the love of my own man. The path we're on. The hopes I have for us. The grief over what we've lost. The love of the Savior who has carried us thus far, and the blind trust that He'll continue. Will we get to that sweet peace someday? I believe it.

Good-byes, at least the best ones, are always followed by hellos.
We get to see something new.
If we'll look for it.
And even though I stand in a bit of reluctance about this one, surely God has a world of new moments He's waiting to reveal just for me.
So good-bye Curt and Jenn, good-bye sweet children.
Be blessed on your way. And know that the trail you leave behind marked lives you can never count. We're finding other hellos to follow our good-bye to you.
May your next hello in your new life bedazzle you beyond your dreams.

Good-bye.

Today, the sun is shining in Michigan.
A welcome visitor because she stays hidden most of the time, at least in February. I'm not complaining though. I always get more done in my house and in my soul when the weather isn't 75 and sunny all the time.
And cloud covers bring out the contemplation and reflection that showcase the pain and the art and the creativity. Clouds invite the introspection that new dreams are made of. Clouds give me time to think and slow down, at least for awhile.
Then I get sick of 'em.
So, welcome sunshine.
I've been expecting you.

I have a wide open Saturday. No plans of any significance.
Before my husband's eyes rolled open or our little girl's footsteps came creeping down the hall, a slim ray of light shining through the bedroom window, nudged me out of bed.
The crisp white snow on the sleepy oaks lay in a smooth, white sparkle - soft enough to drink, or so it seemed. Felt good knowing I had nowhere to be; no one to be.

I got a call - one of my girlfriends asking me to hang out downtown. Maybe have lunch, go for a walk, window shop, and certainly enjoy rich conversation and a cup of tea.

She's a high school teacher. So passionate about impacting young lives with eternal purpose. Such a daunting task, but she is up for it.
I'd say she's crazy, but I'm too much like her to make that claim.
She's pulled in a lot of directions. She carries mental weight like few people I know. She juggles her schedule between writing curriculum, counseling wayward teens, teaching kids (some of whom have no regard or respect for authority, let alone the will and desire to learn anything), keeping up with her house as a single woman, tending to a large extended family, and listening to people - whatever their need. Her life is taxing, but she is almost always cheerful and present and available and kind. She's sure of foot and carries herself with confidence. She's sturdy in a stream of inconsistent and unreliable friends, who mostly seem too consumed by their own lives to make room for anyone else's.
There's lots of space in her heart, even if her head is a little bit crowded.

So today, we met. We took a long walk through quaint neighborhoods and wooded parks. We talked about everything from how God makes up His mind on who goes to heaven, to will we ever grow out of adult acne and wanting someone to be proud of us. We pontificated about how we could build a new world if teens would just come to class with an attitude of wonderment, and if husbands would really pursue their wives. As we walked - well into the second hour - we rounded a corner and discovered a devilishly cute boy walking a dog, hoping the dog would want to meet us, so we could meet the boy. Darn, he was wearing gloves so we couldn't tell if he was married and might want to take my friend on a date sometime - seeing as how he obviously lived in the neighborhood and loved Saturday strolls like we did. We admired paint colors and brick shades and landscaping and yard trinkets. We walked in silence too. Just allowing the winter fresh air and the comfort of knowing someone well to be the voice.

And, in the midst of all this, I never looked at my watch, cuz I didn't want to. It's rare to find a person with whom I feel that way... okay with the swift ticking of hours because all the other things I have to do don't matter that much.
I was happy. I've missed that feeling.

We finished our walk.
I needed to get home, but I wanted to prolong our visit just a bit more.
We snagged a quick lunch in a cozy vegetarian cafe.
And after opening the menu and wishing I could go there often enough to order everything on the menu - at least once - I picked something quick and relished in the precious time we had left. Just enough to scarf down some soup and a hearty glass of very pink beet, carrot, and apple juice. My friend and I shared a couple more stories with a lovely combination of mutual listening and speaking, not too much of either, but just enough of both, and we headed out.

My heart smiled all the way home.
I haven't felt like that in awhile.
Safe. Heard. Seen. Loved.

Thanks Krista.

You know that time and space from the moment you have a bit of an argument with someone to the time when they return your phone call, or answer your email, if they do at all? That waiting space? That time where "paralysis of analysis" sets in and any wrong move or word from anyone could send you into a crying frenzy, because you're self esteem is that fragile, and because of what you might have said to hurt your wronged friend. You go through all this mental torture of what they're thinking and you play out all the worst case scenarios in your head of how you're a bad person and now, all of your friends are probably going to leave you because of that one misunderstanding you have going with someone else?

I'm there right now. The days are long. The nights are longer.

I don't even take into consideration all the possible events that could be going on with them like: they're sleeping in, or rushing around, or tending to a sick child, or they dropped their cell phone in the garbage, or their internet isn't working, or whatever else.

I always make it about me. Certainly I am wrong and bad. I over emphasize my importance to them, like they have nothing else going on except to analyze my shortcomings and how they can creatively punish me because of them. So, I enter into self torture mode, punishing myself for all the things I'm not and why I don't really make a good friend anyways.

Am I the only one who does this? Think too much?
What would it be like if I could just go to bed and read a novel and escape, and quit thinking about stuff and things that aren't happening and likely never will.

I have grown up some, which is nice. I'm not that sickly connected to what others do and think. I find ways to function just fine, I really do. I love myself and find value in all kinds of things about me, but in these long grueling hours of waiting, it's harder to see what's beautiful and much easier to see all that's missing.

For as much as I talk about peace, I sure could use a dose of it right now, cuz my heart hurts when I wait like this. I'm so glad the Lord holds me close and that He knows and sees what I can't. And I love how the passage of time heals what's broken and makes it right. I'll be fine. I always am.