Hearing that I was going to be out of town, L’s well-meaning parents extended the invitation to have L. and family stay at their house for the weekend. Kara was very excited about it, and L and I agreed that it was so nice of them to ask. But then, somehow, my brother and sister-in-law, with their dog, also showed up for the weekend. Recall, if you will, that opening nine-squared montage from the television show “The Brady Bunch”—that’s the image that came to my mind when L told me what was about to happen. And, the Wednesday or Thursday before, Caleb learned how to climb. On Friday morning when I headed for Virginia, I knew I had the better deal.
Dad and I met in Kingsport and drove the rest of the way to Roanoke, chatting about SharePoint, about corporate environments, about health care, my new boss, financial prudence, and the bathroom he and Karen are remodeling. Once you get above Bristol, I-81N enters kind of a middle earth. The hills and valleys stretch and roll away from you on either side, and farms and houses clump and spread out again with no visible pattern. What these people do. Why they elected to live here next to nothing, close to nothing, known by no-one, I do not know, but there are a good many of them. It is like leaving the grid itself in the forty miles or so divided by the Tennessee-Virginia border.
Roanoke exists because eventually some place has to get bigger than a farmyard. Pennsylvania shows up soon enough, so Virginia has to do something before someone driving through mistakes its own soil for that of its even-larger next-in-line. All the usual chain stores and restaurants that make up the faux culture of these United States are represented, and there are lots of churches. Thanks to its being the only town around, Roanoke has a number of hotels too. And Roanoke College is there. A Lutheran institution (though, really, what does that mean these days?) We parked and followed tons of mostly elderly people into a crowded auditorium. Dad and I scored some nice bleacher seats, and had an uninterrupted audience with the right reverend for about two hours. Wright, a genuinely swell chap, shook hands and signed books afterward. His eyes said jet lag, but he smiled and tried his best. He genuinely brightened when I said I’d seen him before at Harvard (years go now), and Dad and I bought a few books from the “we didn’t mark this down a whit” book table. The next day would be even better.
The next day, Wright spoke at brick-and-glass Episcopal church which sat atop a hill overlooking the valley and, beyond that, a giant block of a mountainside. Getting there, the roads were so winding and narrow. Finding a world-class theologian in a place like this, I said, is simply incredible. And getting seats as we did, front row right in front of the podium, was just as incredible. Wright seemed better rested. He answered questions and signed books. This time, I got a smile and an enthusiastic explanation from him when I asked him about the doctrine of theosis. If I’m every trapped in an elevator or sharing a taxi with him, I think we should pick up the conversation, because he seemed pleased I’d asked, but had to address the zillion people in line behind me.
Ooops. I’ve run out of time. Going to have to finish this tomorrow.
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