A friend of ours from college, Eric Van Wyk, is doing some very cool stuff with puppets. You can view a Washington Post video about his newest project here.

Then he took the cup, gave thanks and offered it to them, and they all drank from it.

Mark 14:23

"Abba, Father," he said, "everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will."

Mark 14:36

We are moving. We are not ready to leave Three Rivers, but we are, at least for now. And as we attempt to pack and transport our belongings, we are also putting out the biggest mailing in *cino history, planning and conducting our first annual conference and attempting to transition our store to new management.

But this post is not about how I wake up in the morning with my head swimming in a restless ocean. This post is about an island of respite in the chaos.

On Tuesday night, at the invitation of our friend Karla, Rob and I and our housemate Jeff packed a picnic dinner and went canoeing/kayaking down the St. Joseph River near Constantine, Michigan. The river at that point is about fifty feet across, with a gentle current, and deep and/or cloudy enough that I couldn't see the bottom most of the time. Unlike most of the lakes around here, almost all river residents seemed to respect the sharing of the space with wildlife and had generous buffers of trees and undergrowth. We paddled upstream for about 45 minutes until we reached the bridge and the old hydroelectric generator in downtown Constantine and then mostly floated back downstream. The air was one of those perfect extension-of-the-body temperatures and the light was lovely as the sun sank below the trees and glittered off the aquatic plants. We were joined at various points by geese, swans, muskrats, waterskiing beetles, and unidentified leaping amphibians. After being unable to locate the beach we were pursuing for our picnic, we headed back to our launch point, which was the home of Karla's friends, Mark and Suzanne.

Mark and Suzanne were just arriving home from Goshen and they invited us to visit Mark's "shinto shack," a handmade amalgamation of eastern and western cultures situated in the middle of the trees and near the future site of Mark's woodfire kiln--he's an amazingly talented potter. The shack is approximately 10' x 12', built on a wooden platform with doors that open on all four sides. A few torches and candles lit our meal as we journeyed deeper into the darkness of evening. Our meal included:

• homemade bread with thyme from the garden added


• homemade hummus made with locally grown garlic


• sliced cucumbers from our garden


• cheese (sharp cheddar and farmer's)


• locally grown blueberries


• a Long Neck red wine

The blueberries and cheese were particularly delicious together and the setting and the company were perfection. Even though they had already eaten, Mark and Suzanne joined us for conversation. We got to hear how they met and a little about what they do. Last fall, they conducted a pottery show on their property and they have big plans to make it an annual event--at least until they find out if the re-routed highway is going to cut through their beautiful land. They'll be having a themed fortieth birthday party this weekend for Mark called "Forty Brats, Forty Beers" for which their ambitious friends will be attempting to gather forty different kinds of brews and meats. After a little while, Mark and Suzanne headed to the house to retrieve long-sleeved shirts for their unprepared visitors and another bottle of wine. They returned with both, as well as a small handmade pottery cup, which they presented to Rob and I as a symbol of blessing in transition.

I heard my first screech owl that night. And I'm holding onto the cup for the last load to Grand Rapids, hoping that a ritual will present itself.

I am grateful for the unexpected loveliness we have enjoyed, even as we grieve the loss of our home here. We closed the evening by dropping off Karla and Jeff, returning the car and kayak to our friends, and biking home through the quiet midnight streets. There is nothing with which to compare the beautiful, resigned sadness of transition. What holds me together is a feeling that the sensation of an evening in the shinto shack on the St. Joseph River is not the bridge, but the refrain of life.

...my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Psalm 23: 5b-6