Susan LaffertySpecific names. Or initials. Scribbled in ink. Indelible. On lined paper in plastic-bound journals bought at the local bazaar.
Thirty years later I’m reading the pages. Details about our encounters with them.
Conversations. Situations.
Prayer requests recorded. Hospitalizations. Heartaches. Crises. Losses. Spiritual confusion.
Last year, I saw a random ad for a writers conference called HopeWords. In Bluefield, West Virginia.
Glancing at familiar and not-so-familiar names of presenters, I somehow knew—I’d be there in April 2024.
I recruited my friend and fellow writer to sign up. It’s not like other writers conferences, we were told. But then, having never been to one before—what did I know?
This past week, I’ve been reflecting on those 24 hours of HopeWords Writers Conference 2024. Remembering Bluefield’s generosity: homemade desserts, excellent musicians, rides on the trolley. Considering the words of Travis Lowe, Daniel Nayeri, Mitali Perkins, Jackie Hill Perry, Hannah Anderson, and more.
And feeling thankful for that not-so-random ad.
Simple shelter. Close quarters with eclectic decor. Spare furnishings.
She welcomes us in. And starts the fire on a small charcoal stove. Takes her sauce pan and pours in the green coffee beans, newly washed.
And so it begins.
The slow, deliberate way of an Ethiopian coffee ceremony.
Traditional hospitality. With laughter. And conversation about life.
Daily and eternal.
