I've recently collated some newsletter articles that I wrote to the first church I served after seminary and self-published them into a paperback book.  But I'm not quite sure what to do with it.  

When I started pulling this together, I wanted to make sure those writings existed.  I had some hard copies, but no digital files.  I wanted to revisit some record of that time, those efforts.  I wondered if I still agreed with myself, if my expressed hopes had been durable.  

I also wondered what my grandchildren would imagine that I believed.  Or their children.  Childhood impressions can stick or change.  I wanted to nudge those to grow as they grew, to evolve from a silly, loving and, hopefully, lovable grandma to some semblance of a woman who thought about how life was going on around her, who spoke about it, and who encouraged and urged others.   And I wanted them to give a fair hearing to the lived faith I knew, not the stereotype version that was emerging as a prototype to be sold to future generations.  Or becoming obsolete. 

Last night I dreamed that I was somewhere high enough to get a bird's eye view of a mid-sized city.  Not one of those skyline views from a plane or drone or superhero.  A place between the earth and the bright horizon.  A bird's eye, looking down with a bird's intent, for something.  For a place to land?  To eat?  To join in a birds-of-a-feather chorus?  Maybe. 

I have this book in hand.  I'm just going to lay it down here.  Perhaps someone will spot it.  

Encountering: the handiwork of faith 

SH