Down the back roads and by-ways of Texas hill country you continue to roll. As you head slightly south, the roadside grasses shift from brown to light green, signaling a shift in terrain to match the shift in the temperature. 

It is still hot. 

But it is no longer beastly hot. 

The directions to your next location – the last of this particular journey – are both clear and puzzling:
       “Follow the interstate to Texas Highway  41.
       Go 23 miles to Highway 83.
       Look for the sign to ‘Foundation Camps’ on the right side at the 15- mile point.
       Turn left onto a steep gravel road
and continue traveling about 1.5 miles to the river road.” 

The river road – sounds innocent enough.
What you don’t yet fully realize is that the river IS the road.
Yes, you read that right.

You drive on the limestone bottom of a shallow river for about 1/3 mile and then turn sharply up to the left.

“Nowhere else but Texas,” you softly whisper.
The Laity Lodge hangs over the cliff of a small canyon carved into the rock by the Frio River. 


Beautiful, clearly marked pathways, hand-laid stone walls, delicately worked wooden doors, oversized wrought iron hardware,

lovely, creaking wooden swings hanging from tree limbs all around the grounds.

Sigh. 

You’ve come to a place where beauty and excellence are prized, celebrated, encouraged. The shade of a thousand trees, the gentle sounds of the river, the babble of excited conversations echoing in every corner – each of these does wonders for the knotted muscles along the left side of your neck and back. You can almost hear them un-kinking as you move into your room.

Your home for the next three nights is clean and welcoming, with care taken to provide comfort. You are late, but just squeak in a partial un-packing, a change of clothes and a hasty arrival at the opening reception.

And then – there they are.

All these ‘friends’ you’ve been making over the cyber waves these months. Smiling, offering hugs, making warm eye contact, seeing you, really seeing you.

A few more muscles un-kink and you begin to believe you’ve come to the right place as you move into the dining room – and find tables set with candles and real linen napkins and of course, the food!

Home-made bread, a fully loaded salad, pasta tossed with chicken and fresh veggies, the moistest chocolate bundt cake you’ve had in a long while.

The richness, warmth and attention to detail bring you to the edge of tears as you settle in for the evening session. Yet, still you wonder…why are you here?

This is a writer’s retreat – yet you don’t consider yourself much of a writer. A learner, perhaps, an admirer of the words and works of others.

So… why are you here?

It takes a while to realize it – most of the weekend, in truth. But slowly – in morning worship, 

at workshops, during meals, in the art center, 

on the dock, 

watching the play of leaves and sky across the waters of the Frio,

walking in the early morning or late afternoon –

you begin to see that what you’re doing here…
is finding a community of kindred spirits. 

People who wrestle like you do, articulate people who help you put words to some of your own struggles, your own questions, your own experience.

Because one of the things you’ve become painfully aware of during this first year of retirement is that you need this. You need it in all kinds of ways you cannot yet name. Just like the spiritual direction training you walked through in July, this is a brief taste of the heavenly table. A chance to be with fellow travelers on the way, many of whom have taken very different roads to get where you all end up. And that is a very, very good thing. A good thing, indeed.

               – from Rite 1, Holy Communion, Covenant Book of Worship, 2003. 

A few snapshots of some old/new friends from this weekend away.





Sharing with Jen at “Finding Heaven” and the soli deo gloria sisterhood 

and with Laura at The Wellspring and her wonderful “Playdates with God” series.

It is hot.
Beastly hot.
Sweat running down the middle of your back, 
under your breasts, around your waist hot.
As usual, you have over-packed.
Way over-packed.
Lugging heavy bags in and out of a car in this heat is sweaty work,
and for the zillionth time, you are embarrassed
by your own inability to make wise and concise decisions in regard to wardrobe.
The temperature is nearing 100 as you pull away from your city hotel,
headed out into the west Texas countryside.
Maps are spread out, navigating instructions offered as needed.

Eventually you are headed toward a canyon,
a place you have never been and cannot quite picture,
despite a plethora of photographs online.
But before you arrive,
your traveling companion –
who is basically along for the ride on this one –
wants to check out some historical sites.
Approximately 120 miles out of the way, all tolled.
Because this is a companion you love and have lived with for over 4 decades,
and because his idea is a good one, you acquiesce.
And the journey begins.

The land is parched.
Not enough rain for a good long time now.
Live oaks begin to dot the landscape as the detritus of urban life
disappears into the rear view mirror.
The sky seems larger, and the clouds are roiling and boiling across it –
sometimes forming huge thunderheads,
sometimes spreading themselves into feathery strips, light as gossamer.

The turn-off from the throughway comes sooner than you expect
and you head off to the north a bit,
looking for a town with a strange name for Texas – Fredricksburg.
And when you find it,
there are lots and lots of other German names sprinkled everywhere you look:
Vogel
Engel
Goeblein
Schnitzersneibel

Finally, you see the sign you’re hunting –
Lyndon B. Johnson Historic Park –
and you make a quick left onto a narrow road.

Some who analyze such things have said
that it is impossible to understand the presidency of LBJ
without visiting the ranch, the country where he lived,
the country that he loved.
So, you have come.
Do you understand?
A little better perhaps
You see  his birthplace,
his first one-room school,

his grandparents’ home,

the show-barn where he loved to ride, and lasso cattle,
the hangar where the small shuttle plane still sits (officially, always Air Force One), ready to take the President wherever he needs to go.

And you get to tour the Ranch House, only open to the public for the last 3 years.

And here, in this house, in this home – you get a feel for the man,for his wife, for the life they loved here.
No photographs are allowed inside the house –
a place of warmth and graciousness despite its 8500 square feet.
It feels like a home for ordinary folk, warm and welcoming.
A place where real people lived and fought
and made decisions and learned about life.

And death.
LBJ died here, only 64 years old.
But so much life in those years, so much of our story as Americans.
The hideous war in Vietnam.
The miracle of the Civil Rights Act.
A look at the clock confirms that you will be late for this place in the canyon,
with 90 minutes more driving to do.
And the tension builds within.
Patience grows short.
Do you need gas? Do you not need gas?
Are you on the best route? Should you try this way?
The thunderheads gather overhead, as well as inside your spirit,
dropping their load of long-awaited moisture all over the road ahead.
And the temperature drops right along with it.
Relief.
Space to breathe.

And then it hits you.
This feeling – this tenseness inside,
this knot growing in your belly,
this crazy, hyper-critical thinking –
this is very familiar.
It happens every time you’re nearing something new,
somewhere things are ‘expected’ – at least in your own mind.
You wonder if you will fit,
if others will notice you,
welcome you,
listen to you,
see you.
It’s the treacherous, life-robbing cycle of fear, that’s what it is.
The stuff that crowds out the wonder,
the thick, syrupy, invasive thief of all that is good and holy.

And the only antidote you know is this one: love.
The only one.
So you silently begin the Jesus prayer,
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
Big breath in.
Big breath out.

More love, Lord. More love.
Love for this man who patiently drives you across this desert land.
Love for this land,
this view of big sky and big valleys,
of rolling hills and rocky crags.
Love for this adventure, this opportunity, this challenge.
Love for you, Lord.
And the trust that can only be grown in that soil.
Trust that reminds you, ‘all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.’

to be continued… click here to read the follow-up.
 Joining with LL Barkat at SeedlingsinStone for her weekly invitation:

3 additional photos which speak to the quiet beauty of this space