“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’” ~ C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Taking the end of the lunch hour to sneak into the Church of the Redeemer’s stately but cozy living room, where one guy was surfing the internet and another snoring, I found a few minutes to reflect on Hutchmoot as it was unfolding. What’s a Hutchmoot, you say? That, friends, is tough to explain. Let’s just say it’s no ordinary conference. If it were, why would The Spouse and I consider it a getaway?

Saturday, 24 September—The grands are holding down the Boggs fort, which, I’ll admit, seemed to be under siege when Luke and I slunk out the door Wednesday night with our last bit of luggage.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, I typed at the end of three pages of instructions, for keeping the kids while we go fill our minds with stuff we’ll never actually use in real life.

But that’s not quite true, unless real life is only the routine of running offspring here and there and dousing the fires of homework tears and perpetually runny noses and too many bills and e-mails and errands.

Sometimes it feels like that’s all there is.

We’re here with a hundred or so others who’ve stepped away from busy-ness and are trying, I think, to inch toward exchanging what is good for God’s big, scary best.

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I have a Friend who writes, reads incessantly, sings soprano, plays piano and guitar, sews, draws, cooks, dances, gardens, cleans a much-loved but large and dusty old farmhouse and, every morning and night, tends a gaggle of animals.

But now, in her spare time, she has really gone and done it.

She has made a book.

I don’t mean she wrote a novel. That’s almost old hat. She made a book.

No one in the world of printing books for a living would help her, not in the way she envisioned. So she took her dream to her husband, who said, more or less, “I’ll build you a press.” They studied up, and he did it. I’ve seen the benign-looking contraption he engineered sitting in an upstairs room now dedicated to publishing.

So these two, with the help of a few artistic friends, spent billions of hours turning a copyright-expired story by L.M. Montgomery, author of Anne of Green Gables, into Low Door Press’ first product. A hundred years after Kilmeny of the Orchard’s first run, husband and wife printed and folded, and Lanier spent a season sewing signatures by hand. Her artist-sister painted the frontispiece, and an artist-friend tried his hand at the art of old-fashioned letterpress.

There was sweat and tears and maybe a little blood. The result: something solid and beautiful to touch and smell and put on a shelf high so tiny hands can’t reach.

It’s not a book to read in the bathtub.

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“I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time—waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God—it changes me.” ~ Jack

Yesterday contained all the ingredients of a Jonah day: a marathon schedule bookended by meetings, with a doctor’s appointment stuck in the middle. Add a dash of an annoying bank error and a smidgeon of humiliation, and, voila: one big stress sandwich.

First was Sadie’s annual Individualized Educational Plan, where I’m told the goals set for her at school. I brought something baked and hoped for the best. Noticing a box of tissues in the center of the conference table, I thought about the moms who’ve told me they cry during IEPs. I guess things don’t always go smoothly.

But I’m always humbled by the team of teachers and therapists sitting around telling me what they do for Sadie, the ways they love her. Yesterday their faces shone with the fact that our girl is back after a year of being in a seizure-induced fog, isolated and alone and angry and scared. She is delighted and delightful and in our faces and full of funny things to say and do.

We talked about last year versus now, and I wondered how we made it through, how I didn’t walk around sobbing. I would search Sadie’s eyes for spark and find none. I would hit the steering wheel with my fists and talk “Do you remember when she could…” with The Spouse. I don’t want to go back there, but I know the other shoe could drop any minute.

I almost needed a tissue.

I got in my car and remembered to remember there was grace, and it doesn’t run dry.

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My friend Missy Deluca is, among other things, a thinker and wit supreme. This weekend, her inner nerd was drawn to the gathering of 45,000 nerds at DragonCon, a celebration of all things sci-fi.

Oscar Wilde said once, “Life is too important to take seriously.”

I  found myself struggling with this premise Saturday at the annual  Dragoncon parade. The hubs and I dragged all our brood down to Atlanta to oogle sci-fi fans clad in outrageous costumes. We really didn’t know what to expect, but anything nicknamed “Nerdi Gras” had  promise to be a fun morning for the DeLucas.

Before I go on, I have to share a little secret here: a judgmental  street preacher lives inside of me. One who wants to grab a megaphone  and shout, “Repent! The time is near! Think on deeper things! Stop  dressing up as Wonder Woman and get serious with your life!” There’s  definitely a component of truth to this voice inside my head. Indeed,  the days are evil and as followers of the Lord, we must make the most  of every opportunity (Ephesians 5:16). But where does that leave us as  believers? Do we forsake hobbies and novels and just plain silliness? 

Do we stand on the corner of life and look for specks without removing  our planks?

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