Hutchmoot — The Morning After

Hutchmoot. I think it’s Greek for “somebody-pinch-me-because-this-is-too-good-to-be-true.” It’s a Nashville conference where I spent last weekend learning from fellow believers, writers, musicians, artists, and coffee drinkers. Here’s what I wrote in my journal the day after I came home.

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No one at the grocery store today asked my name. How very odd.

The aisles were fluorescent-lit and stark.

There was noise, to be sure, but it was the electronic rhythm of drudgery, and not the warm ringing of gladness.

I had to make my own sandwich.

My children begged for a video, and not a book.

No aged oak trees hugged the Indiana roadside and beckoned me to look harder. There was nothing obscured – at least nothing I could see.

I didn’t cry, not even once.

The neighbor across the street mumbled a greeting with her cell phone pressed to her ear. Her hair color is different, but not her countenance.

Can she not see the cathedral sky split open above us, the bright beams of hope pouring forth, the rich hues of truth blazing before our eyes? Can she not hear the melody of perfect joy flung down or feel the warm embrace of unrelenting love?

Can no one see it?

The church pianist called. There is new work to be done.

The potted mums opened overnight and smiled their reply to the autumn sun.

My dear husband, silhouetted by lamplight, invited my stories. He laughed in all the right places.

The pillow under my head is my own.

And so I return through the darkened glass for a little while longer. Back I go to my cherished abode of hard-won faith and reflected joy. The enemy has not rested, and into his lair I must go.

But I go, four dawns later, with the taste of Reality lingering on my lips. Having been welcomed for a moment at the banquet table, I return to work the garden. I go with a full belly and a burning promise to sustain me.

I go, finally daring to believe that I am known, and yet loved.