Paul.
To the twelve readers of Soupablog dispersed abroad; greetings. :)
I was able to get a much earlier flight to DFW today and I've been waiting here at the airport: standing by for one of two potential “earlier flights” back to SA-town. They're oversold, however.
So: hello.
I'm back in TX following a week long gathering of friends old and new in the hills of New Mexico, just outside of Santa Fe. Meanwhile, Amy's flying to Chicago to see Syler run the marathon (we’re proud of you, Syler), and Jordan leaves for a campout while I watch the three girls. And I guess I will now wax sentimental, even though I know that tendency bugs a few of you... too bad:
Word and table. I learned something about both this week. I also learned a bit more about myself. And I tasted pumpkin waffles at Harry's Roadhouse Café thanks to a kitchen-staff request from Doug P. Later, I fell in love with a painting and a retablo of San Antonio de Padua on Canyon Road.
I laughed until I cried on Wednesday night — and last night, walking back to my room in the rain, I cried. And cried. I think I was lamenting something I lost.
But, then, I also found much. Common ground with other parents, Christ-followers, authors, artists, photographers and musicians — and we examined differences as well. We sat and participated in respectful (dare I say generative) conversations about parenting, dockside conversations about art, and others. What else. I listened to and gave input on several friends' book manuscripts and/or fledgling book ideas — and encouraged a fourth to restart her blogging and manuscript; I showed my book idea to several friends, and my sketchbooks to others. A handful of us sat on a back porch and dreamed about launching a new periodical.
I received Holy Eucharist and holy listening as a gift from one friend. This morning over breakfast I received a much needed story about failed intentional communities — and the perseverance to keep trying — from another. Over a cigar we discussed being kind to our detractors on the same porch where two years earlier I had assembled pizzas with a tall skinny Kiwi. The one action in 2005 [pizza making] being an action of hospitality, and the other action a study for my own part in inhospitality (not only because poor Saranell kept avoiding our smoke, but also because I unthinkingly brought my smoky self and clothes into the apartment where my friends were sleeping. And because smoking is banned at Baptist encampments). I discussed Schrute Bucks with Laci, hyped up Robot Chicken Star Wars for Damien and Lisa, and was called “Kern” repeatedly by Becky. We lived, slept, and ate in community. Everyone missed Amy and the kids, as well as others who didn't make it this year. We met new children who had been born into this community since our last gathering; we welcomed newcomers who had found their way into the conversation. I shared an apartment with two other graphic designers by complete coincidence.
We had a nice meal paid for unexpectedly by a new friend: perhaps buzzed by the serendipity of it all, we immediately conspired to obscenely over-tip our server. Fives, tens and twenties were passed around the table: I handed the speechless guy about a hundred bucks over-and-above the auto-assessed gratuity our culture’s dining establishments reserve for large parties. We laughed like crazy on the ride home. I'm reminded I'm blessed to have such friends. We shared our wounds, our dreams, our fears and questions. I was reminded of faith-things to which I want to cling more tightly, and other faith-things I might need to shed. I was reminded to stop apologizing so often. In any case my heart is full.
These people are my tribe.
p.s. I did get on the second “early” flight home — Chris A. picked me up at about 11:pm. Meredith was home watching the kids. Community is a good thing. (Thanks Alvarez fam)
