I’m sitting in my room at the Econo Lodge in Beaumont, having finished my church duties for the day, the private debate about driving home and coming back tomorrow having ended when I filled up my tank on the way over this morning with the realization that the hotel is cheaper than the drive, missing my beloved notwithstanding. I got in from Minneapolis at 5:00 last night, up at 6:30 today to make the 110-mile jaunt. I told the Bethlehemites at worship if you think that after that I’m going to spend another eight hours writing a sermon just for you you’re nuts; I’m gonna preach one of my favorites that may or may not have anything to do with the readings. I’d been in Minneapolis–the breeding ground of that Minnesota nice which makes me crazy–since around noon the previous Monday, where Matchmaker Don and about three dozen other persons and I of the clerical persuasion completed the final session of the intentional interim ministry training. It’s really fine stuff, and I applauded the three trainer/leaders with the title O Purveyor of Great Shit when addressing them. Since it was so good, it was intense and I was plenty beat, having to work, you know, six days in a row. But, hey, I got a certificate, which will undoubtedly go in some drawer that holds all the other certificates of my life, from the spiritual formation communities (“we now pronounce you, uh, umm, spiritual”) to the various formal degrees to my scuba diving certificate to the two ridiculous army commendation medals I got for, I guess, surviving Vietnam, though I was never in any but the most flukish danger, trombonists and clarinetists not being a major, say, military target. (I’m thinking the folks working the rice patties as the Chinook landed on the dirt road and we came piling out must have been thinking they were watching clowns coming out of a VW as we assembled ever so militarily with our instruments in hand, the same thing I’d been doing since 8th grade band, marching from the paddies into the hamlet.) I have a bunch of these certificates stashed all over the place, like souvenirs of a pilgrim’s journey, and am liable to stumble into one of them anytime I’m really looking for something else, because they just get stashed in whatever file folder seems convenient at the time, and I look at them and think of the people who walked that trail with me, and it’s a grace.

Minnesota weather spooks me, so I packed carefully, strategizing for all possibilities while minimizing the crap I gotta bring along. This great strategy was disrupted considerably on, I think it was Tuesday night, when, reaching across that hotel night table between Matchmaker’s bed and mine past the shiraz for the cabernet, on the retrieval I knocked the shiraz to upside down in my lap. The time it took Matchmaker to realize that both my hands were full and thus snatch the gurgling vino added considerably to the clean-up time, which we had to do because this was not a hotel, but a retreat center with a sign on the door saying no alcoholic beverages allowed in room and we didn’t want the OPOGS to have a hassle with the center, though that policy is, I’m sure, rather relaxed. It also took out a strategically-packed pair of pants before its time, like the first guys to hit Omaha beach.

Since we were done at noon on Friday and my flight was Saturday I’d actually thought ahead enough to contact some pals. John of the Northlands was coming in from Wisconsin, and later we’d go to his place for the night. Cap’n Fidget would drive down from Fergus for a time. Pastor Carol the sis-in-law would drive over from Rochester (MN) as soon as her flight got in from Florida around noon. Matchmaker Don and I and all them could get together, hook up with folks we’ve shared times with over the years. But on Wednesday John of the Northlands had a death at his place and a big time state funeral to deal with over Friday and Saturday, so that nixed those plans. Pastor Carol the sis-in-law’s plane was something like three hours late, so that nixed that plan. And finally Cap’n Fidget called and said he can’t come.

Because it was snowing.

Not merely snowing, a full-fledged blizzard, white-out conditions shutting down the interstate. A possibly killer storm maybe, whatever, fifty miles west, but Sven the TV weather guy with blond hair and a salon tan assured us Minneapolis was in for at the most a light dusting. So I hung with Matchmaker and his family at his truly cordial and welcoming even though Minnesotan sis’s and hubby’s place, and a cousin showed up and we picked up his dad at the retirement place and went out to eat, huddling, as it were, around that table against weather which, while only raining, was fit for neither man nor beast, as they say, cold, wet, pathetic, and dark.

Yesterday I woke up, and it was snowing in Minneapolis, with maybe two or three inches on the ground. It was snowing, and I thought, Jesus, it’s the end of April and it’s still snowing. And then I thought, Jesus, people actually live here, many even out of choice. And I got on the plane and came home and peeled off the Minnesota clothing layers and dove into my usual shorts and t-shirt and sat on the deck and smoked a cigar while I looked for the used sermon I preached this morning. We slept with the bedroom window open, and I was awakened midway by sweat tickling down my back, so I addressed that by turning on the fan, then sliding back to sleep with a prayer, I thank you, God, that this is not Minneapolis.

And then the north wind carried some other’s equally fervent though obviously less enlightened prayer, I thank you God that this is not Houston.

And we both praised God. Sorta.