Live and Learn

I'm a city kid. Spent most of my growing up in Chitown. I like big buildings and elevated trains and a plethora of restaurants and book shops and music stores. I like the pace and feel of it. I like the steady hum. When I'm in a city, it feels like home.

So, if someone had sat me down a decade ago and suggested that I might want to try a couple of days away in the middle of Arkansas, a place where Little Rock is the Big City, I'd most likely have nodded politely and been on my way.

Unless that somebody was a firecracker named Rachel. Then I'd have given it a shot.

And boy, would I be glad I did.

Because for the initial bit of culture shock and and the 60+ strangers and the inside jokes and stories and the general overwhelming nature of it all (I asked my now father-in-law for his blessing in marrying Rachel), it was a pretty enjoyable holiday.

But not as much as the one two years later. Or the one after that. And so on.

Every two years some 60+ people gather in a place I'd just have soon passed by a decade ago. And every time we meet, I enjoy it more than the last time we met. And I live a little more. And I learn a little more. About these 60+ people. About myself. About what it means to be family.

In a few days, Rachel and Harry and I will pack up the mini-van and head off to Cord, AR. We'll spend a couple of days playing cards and fishing and walking in the woods and talking a lot and eating a lot and relaxing a lot.

And I will thank God for the blessing of a family I didn't know I needed. For some 60+ people who gather in a place that feels like home.