Memoirous

In the Low Honest Prayers for Dark Seasons by Justin McRoberts and Scott Erickson There’s always surprises at the Festival, small delights and big discoveries around books and authors I’m not acquainted with—same goes for this year. I’ve often wondered: does timing matter? The algorithm is all over the place. Upon first arriving, the energy is there, while on Saturday the last day, the emotional levels are depleted. Am I more open to the universe at the beginning or end? Just like the Michigan spring—there’s no predicting. I picked up my name badge at registration and sat down to scan the beautifully designed program. Then I visited the Exhibit Room where there were very few literary journals represented. Hmmm, why? Time remaining before the noon plenary, I wandered over to the art space at Calvin, where Scott Erikson a Festival speaker had an exhibit. I wasn’t familiar with his work. Apparently, he is big on social media; his Instagram is wildly popular. The bio on the wall at th...

This has become a thing—for almost 12 years. I believe my first ride home from the Festival of Faith and Writing in the always unpredictable month of April—the weather, that is. I’ve had snow, sleet, rain (of course!) and sometimes too much heat. Heading home to Chicago, the ride took 4 days. It’s much more manageable going back to Okemos. Once again, I took Indian Trails up, prepped bike and took off for my host’s house—fabulously only 3 streets over from Calvin University, making getting back and forth during the Festival easy peasy. There’s always surprises at the Festival, small delights and big discoveries around books and authors I’m not acquainted with—same goes for this year. I’ve often wondered: does timing matter? The algorithm is all over the place. Upon first arriving, the energy is there, while on Saturday the last day, the emotional levels are depleted. Am I more open to the universe at the beginning or end? Just like the Michigan spring—there’s no predicting. The b...

I knew you before Smartphones in analog time for over 40 years we are witnesses to change. Incarnation. In the basement of The Rock (youth hangout at First Baptist Church) Kool-Aid, Cornerstone, rock music Our hearts burned, Praise Him! I knew you before marriage, children before heartbreak, despair in the 70s, last century on bikes and junker cars cross country runs when our bodies moved— flown open to the Holy Spirit. Let’s forget and remember who we were, used to be friends . . . see you next time.  

Not sure how much I’ll be blogging this week. The Festival of Faith and Writing starts Thursday and I leave Wednesday by bus to get up to Grand Rapids. The big news: Spring is coming. After the historic rainfall—4 inches in 24 hours—and intense backyard flooding, we’re down to a 4 foot in diameter puddle that the sump pump is slowly trickling down. We can’t seem to keep the 2-year-old out of it. There are multiple clothing changes throughout the day. But the tilt of the earth has shifted, we’re over some kind of hump. I believe. Today I noticed magnolia trees about to burst forth. The forsythia bushes are leafed out. The tree outside my door has hard little buds on it. I took a little over 2-hour bike ride this a.m. It was 43 degrees when I started out 70 by the time I walked into our courtyard at home. I needed to get some miles in as I’m hoping to ride home from Grand Rapids next Sunday. I write hoping because every time I try to train it’s either snowing, raining, or hailing. ...