With the van packed into every inch of space, Dave at the wheel, Ery and I padded in with cozy tunnels perfect for our legs, and Brad in a partial leg fold behind me, we set off in great spirits, directed by a small screen named Debra who had an American accent today. (I prefer her Aussie one myself). The image as I write this conjures up an episode of either the Clampetts or one of the I love Lucy road trips. We stopped short of actually singing, but let me just say that spirits were high as we headed south.
After a stop or two and several hours of southward bound, we settled in for number one of our sightseeing stops: Berea, Kentucky: arts and crafts Mecca of the region. Although the preponderance of masterworks from wood carved furniture and utensils to jewelry, pottery and glass sculpture was of a joyful ambiance, there were some pieces that just existed in their own space with an exquisite quiet elegance that left the observer sensing the longing that calls each of us to higher expression. Perhaps my favorite was the sculpture works of animals and whimsical characters made from car parts, plumbing pipes, and stuff you find in laying around in your garage. I have no idea how this artist instills the character in each of his creations’ face that makes them so different from the other sculptures made with the same materials. The difference between an artist and a toymaker, I guess. We all seemed to have a sort of emotional attachment to them by the time we left.
As the kitchen at the center was closed, we were propelled as it were to seek our sustenance a couple of miles down the road in Berea proper. A sachet through Boone's Tavern, and we landed in the Main Street Café, where we had good café fare soup and sandwiches while listening to the entire theme song from the Daniel Boone television series as read by Dave from his smart phone, 
later followed with the entire musical version sung by the musicians who sang it at the beginning of every episode…indelible in our memories. Dave and I sang along, much to the amusement of the Gembos…who may, now that I think of it, have considered it scary.
HOME TO RIDGECREST
We arrived around 9:00 at our now familiar retreat, our gift from the Baptists: Ridgecrest. The last time we were there it was during a bustling Baptist convention with all rooms taken expect the dorms. Our expectation was therefore of rustic, more teen oriented, shall we say, accommodations, and a camp-like, eat on schedule in the cafeteria-kind of existence. This time, however, there were almost no cars…just a welcoming gentleman at the gate house who joked about us owing him several Crispy Creams, and subtle Christmas lights visible through some of the glass doors as we drove around to find our building, this time the nicest on the campus. The glass doors slid open to reveal a blazing fireplace with pine decked mantle, and a brilliantly lit Christmas tree with burgundy velvet balls.
It seemed an entire holiday Inn prepared for our arrival, and all to ourselves. We moved into our rooms, and then back to the fire to resume our breath, taking in the unique atmosphere of serenity together. As the overhead lighting was entirely unnecessary, Dave, as he was wont to do several times during our journey, rummaged around up and down the corridor behind walls and, finally, what would have been the reception desk had it not been closed, until he found the right switch. Click-instant ambiance, a swift hoist over the counter, and back into our little clutch to savor the moment. Comparing notes, our rooms both had a message from someone who wanted us to know they valued us, and had been praying for us to refresh in this place. It was tangible, and the Presence would remain with us long after we left.
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