I spent the weekend at The Festival of Tents. It’s a family camp-out in Brownsville where we listen to the occasional speaker and sit around our campfires discussing times gone by and practical theology.
This was the first time I was allowed to stay at festival (apparently bad things happen down by the river?) so I turned down an invite to, again, climb middle sister, threw some supplies in the whale and took off.
It was a cool scene; all the play structures were well made, the children well tempered. In a sense, it was freeze tag heaven. Through my adventures on the climbing rope-y thing, I met a girl named Eden who would have believed I was twelve. Later that evening I came to find out that she was Eden Avery and I was invited to join the Wilke/Avery campfire. That was where I met the rest of her sisters and friends who would have believed that my name was Carmin. As things worked out I ended up hanging out with a conglomerate family of seven girls and about four guys (plus the Wiard girl). Some may see irony in these numbers, for the rest of us now would be the time to laugh lightly and sigh.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t be as entertaining as I was the first few nights during the last of our time together. Sometimes the anticipation of being alone is the worse affliction. The hardest part of losing someone is watching them go.