Artistically I have always been drawn to texture, both visual and tactile. I’m about to go to bed in the hip Meader loft after Jeremiah abdicated his right to sleep here tonight. He dudn’t know what he’s missin’. I’ve just spent the perfect summer day with good friends eating fresh, unprocessed food off the farm, walking down a country lane and taking in the wonder of childhood. I am musing on the “texture” of memories. Is a memory just a mere documentation of facts, a précise recollection of a shared past event? Tonight we spent a couple hours sitting on a breezy porch pulling up random recollections and laughing less at the memory and more at the presentation (you know who you are!). Conversations meandered freely and openly with no forced performances or pressure or false pretensions. When you can palpably feel the joy in the telling, the sharing, the giving and the receiving of stories, then to me that’s the texture of memory and the satisfying touch of friendship.

Thanks porch gang.

I was not very happy during our two years in Raleigh but call it divine sovereignty that God allowed us to meet some terrific folks that sweetened the ache.