My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 8
Forget blazing fanfare. Forget Alcatraz. I was rapidly approaching the end of the Golden Gate
Bridge, and all I could see before me were the Foreboding Toll Gates. This is what was running
through my mind at that moment on April Fool's Day, 2004. OhmanohmanIdon'thavefivebucks.
OhmanohmanIdon'thavefivebucks. Oh man, oh man! I hope I have five bucks!!!
Here's the deal. When I left my house the day previous, everything needing to be paid had been
paid. I brought my credit card for motel stays, for food, and for emergencies. I did not bring my
debit card, nor did I bring a large amount of cash. Truth is, I brought $10 in cash and that was it.
And I had already spent some . . .
So, I'm coasting up to the Foreboding Toll Gates, see . . .
My brain freezes. I'm heading straight for a slot with this sign high above it. EXPRESS PASSES
ONLY. Now, I'm no genius, but it didn't take me long to realize that if this was my very first trip
across the Golden Gate, it was very likely I did not have an Express Pass to get me through the
Foreboding Toll Gates.
This is what happened in the following split second. I glanced over my right shoulder and saw
nothing back there. Well, of course I saw the bridge, and a bazillion cars streaming toward me but,
in my immediate six (behind me), nothing. Not one car. So I pulled one of the sharpest right-hand
turns I'd ever pulled in my wee car right in front of the Foreboding Toll Gates, and sped all the way
down to the Forlorn Slot At the End, the one with the sign that read, CASH.
Needless to say, I was a wee bit shaky by now.
And, thank You, Lord! The only cash I had left was the $5 bill I found among my receipts (which I
dutifully saved so I could deduct my business expenses later) in my purse.
Hah! Triumphant, I grabbed that $5 bill and turned to the nice attendant inside the booth at the
Forlorn Slot At the End of the Foreboding Toll Gates. The pretty, African-American woman
flashed a smile at me—not a may-I-help-you smile, but a what-in-the-world-was-that? smile—and
said, "Is that how they drive in Oregon?"
I laughed as I pulled away from the booth, as I merged back onto 101, as I merged back onto 1, as
my car chugged up the 19th Avenue hill, then coasted merrily down into Pacifica. Yes, I laughed
the entire way. At myself.
What a dork.
But my laughter suddenly ceased when my heart seized. A new and terrifying thought crossed my
mind.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 9
So, it's April Dork's Day, 2004. For sure. I'm cruising south on Highway 1 past Pacifica,
California, on my way to Santa Cruz, and this sudden and terrifying thought shatters my giddy
Golden-Gate-Disaster afterglow. At that moment, except for the loose change in my purse, I
positively did not have any more cash. And, after the conference, my trip home would bring me
right back to those Foreboding Toll Gates blocking Highway 101 at the majestic Golden Gate
Bridge.
I needed an ATM machine. But, no, that wouldn't help, since I didn't bring my debit card with me,
only my credit card. And I most certainly did not know the PIN for that!
Somehow, somewhere, in the next week, I needed to come up with another $5 bill!
Okay, now, this was serious. But, again, I was cracking up as I ran through my options. The only
other person (and fellow Oregonian) I knew who would be at the conference (besides Karen Ball,
and I certainly was NOT going to ask her!) was Sally Stuart, of the Christian Writer's Market
Guide fame. I could ask Sally to loan me five bucks so I could make it home!
No. Wait. Since Ted Dekker was going to be a keynote speaker at the conference, I brought two of
his novels with me. Maybe, if I could find a used-book store, I could sell them and make five
bucks. (Sorry, Mr. Dekker!) But it was already almost 4:30, and how in the world would I find a
used-book store around here before they closed?
No. What I needed was a U.S. Bank. I did (imagine that!) have my driver's license with me. If I
could find a U.S. Bank, I could go in and throw myself upon the teller's mercy to access my
checking account and give me five lousy bucks. Hey. It was THE plan. But, considering it was
now 4:35, I needed to find a U.S. Bank SOON.
And hey. Do you think I'm telling you a fib? Nope. As soon as THE plan came together, as soon
as I started desperately searching for a U.S. Bank, my wee car and I coasted up and stopped in a
line of cars at a red light. I blinked. Focused my eyeballs down the street to the intersection.
Looked right. And there it was. Tucked nicely into a corner strip mall, someone, years ago
perhaps, had built a nice little U.S. Bank. At this very moment, 4:37 p.m. on April Dork's Day,
2004, that U.S. Bank positively saved my bacon.
I went inside and came back out two minutes later with not a $5 bill, but a crisp $20. Hey. I may
be dumb dork, but I'm certainly not a stupid dork.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 10
Wow! Ten parts to this story already, and I haven't even arrived at the conference yet!
After my exciting April Fool's Day, April Fool's Night was blissfully quiet. I cruised around Santa
Cruz a little, found a motel, and fell into a wonderful deep sleep.
Yes. Blissfully quiet. And blissfully ignorant. I had no clue what waited for me when I arrived
the next day at the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference.
April 2nd, 2004. The day my life turned on a dime.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 11
The new day dawned, and with it, not me. I have never been a morning person and, even on that
day, I slept as long as I dared. But soon, eager to see what the new day held, I got up and dressed
and packed, then headed east toward Mount Hermon. After a quick stop for a Burger King ham and
egg biscuit, carefully following the map in my hand, I finally arrived at the Mount Hermon
Christian Conference Center. And I'm, like, "Wow." It was beautiful!
Trees of all kinds amaze me, but I'm especially awestruck by the massive ancient redwoods of
northern California, or the towering fir tucked away in pockets of unmolested old-growth in the
forests of Oregon. So, needless to say, at Mount Hermon, I felt immediately at home, struck with
joyous awe at the work of our Master's creative and loving hand.
I registered, found my room, unpacked, checked out the binder full of information about the
conference, then, wearing my name tag (and a goofy grin, I'm sure), I headed down to the dining
hall for lunch.
One of my favorite ingredients of Christian writers conferences is the food. I go to these things
fully intending to eat well, and they never disappoint. At MH, they serve the food family-style, and
mystery surrounds our table until the food is brought out and we see what's on the menu. Again, I'm
not disappointed. I eat and fellowship—food fellowship, which I've heard Michael Card say was
our Lord Jesus' favorite thing to do. Well, hey. I can see why!
After lunch, I moseyed down to the huge auditorium for the Faculty Introductions session. I found a
spot in the middle of the room and sat back as my food settled, content and ready for whatever the
week promised to bring.
At least I thought I was ready.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 12
So I'm sitting in the huge auditorium at Mount Hermon, see . . .
I'm minding my own business, paying attention as faculty members, one by one, walk across the
stage, stop at the podium, and give their spiels. "Take my class. It's guaranteed to be fun!" "But
my class will be twice as much fun as hers." "Well, my class will be the most-fun class of all!"
It was fun just hearing them talk about how much fun everyone would have.
Okay. Now I'm at that point where I have to make a confession. Of all the people inside that huge
auditorium that day, April 2nd, 2004, the one person I was hoping to see was Karen Ball. Up to
that point, I hadn't been thinking much about the proposal I sent to her weeks ago. And, really, I
was not expecting anything to come of it. But then I spotted her. I leaned to my left just a bit for a
better view.
She sat down about ten rows from me, to my left a little. And there, on her lap, was a stack of 9x12
envelopes. I had to smile. She had probably received a thousand manuscript proposals from
conferees to peruse. Every minute since her arrival, she must have been going through them. And,
not wanting to waste even a minute, she brought a stack with her to Faculty Introductions!
I tried to restrain my smile. It was hard.
Squinting, I watched as she pulled a stack of papers from an envelope and began reading through
them. My smile disintegrated. What if she pulled out my stuff right there while I was watching! I'd
just die! And I would know it right away. On my cover letter, as part of my letterhead, I put a big
cartoon of a girl reading a book as her cat sat on her knee. (I wanted it to be part of my business
logo, until I realized that was copyright infringement. Oops!)
If my proposal sat in that stack, and if Karen Ball pulled it out at that moment, I would know it. I
would watch as she read it. As she rejected it!
I tried to look away. Couldn't. Not for one second. I sat mesmerized, watching her for the entire
rest of the session. Didn't hear much of what went on. But, then, I knew without a doubt that all of
the classes I would take that week would be fun.
Oh, man. I had no idea.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 13
She worked her way through the stack of proposals on her lap. I didn't see a cover letter with a big
cartoon on the letterhead. The Faculty Introduction session of the brand-new 35th Annual Mount
Hermon Christian Writers Conference was about to come to a close.
After pulling my gaze away from Zondervan's senior acquisition editor, I checked my schedule to
see what workshop I had planned on attending next. Do I Need An Agent? by Steve Laube in
Laurel Lounge. Sounded like a good class. And a good question. If my editing clients asked me
that question, maybe, after taking Mr. Laube's class, I could answer it for them. If I could find
Laurel Lounge.
Around me the crowd was breaking up; voices and laughter mixed into the gentle chaos of excited
activity. I grabbed my bag and stuffed my schedule back into it, then searched for my map of Mount
Hermon to help me locate Laurel Lounge.
It was at that moment. I heard my name over the PA system.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 14
Do you know how weird it is to suddenly hear your name broadcast across a crowded room?
Why me? What did I do? Whatever it was, I didn't do it!
My name again. Sort of. I heard all the possible variables. Fleesher? Flesher? It's Fleisher—
pronounced Flyshur—but I wasn't about to shout that out.
I gazed toward the podium. A man stood up there looking out over the crowd. Below him, on the
floor in front of the stage, stood . . . yes. Karen Ball. And she, too, was looking out over the
crowd.
Looking for me.
It was then that I whispered, "Oh, gosh."
Not a very spiritual proclamation, I know. But my brain sort of short-circuited at that moment. I
lifted my hand and gave the man at the podium a wave so he would stop butchering my last name.
Karen saw my wave (I think). I didn't hear my name again.
I made my way down my row, then down toward the stage.
Karen was smiling.
One word filtered up from my heart. Lord?
To be continued . . .
Forget blazing fanfare. Forget Alcatraz. I was rapidly approaching the end of the Golden Gate
Bridge, and all I could see before me were the Foreboding Toll Gates. This is what was running
through my mind at that moment on April Fool's Day, 2004. OhmanohmanIdon'thavefivebucks.
OhmanohmanIdon'thavefivebucks. Oh man, oh man! I hope I have five bucks!!!
Here's the deal. When I left my house the day previous, everything needing to be paid had been
paid. I brought my credit card for motel stays, for food, and for emergencies. I did not bring my
debit card, nor did I bring a large amount of cash. Truth is, I brought $10 in cash and that was it.
And I had already spent some . . .
So, I'm coasting up to the Foreboding Toll Gates, see . . .
My brain freezes. I'm heading straight for a slot with this sign high above it. EXPRESS PASSES
ONLY. Now, I'm no genius, but it didn't take me long to realize that if this was my very first trip
across the Golden Gate, it was very likely I did not have an Express Pass to get me through the
Foreboding Toll Gates.
This is what happened in the following split second. I glanced over my right shoulder and saw
nothing back there. Well, of course I saw the bridge, and a bazillion cars streaming toward me but,
in my immediate six (behind me), nothing. Not one car. So I pulled one of the sharpest right-hand
turns I'd ever pulled in my wee car right in front of the Foreboding Toll Gates, and sped all the way
down to the Forlorn Slot At the End, the one with the sign that read, CASH.
Needless to say, I was a wee bit shaky by now.
And, thank You, Lord! The only cash I had left was the $5 bill I found among my receipts (which I
dutifully saved so I could deduct my business expenses later) in my purse.
Hah! Triumphant, I grabbed that $5 bill and turned to the nice attendant inside the booth at the
Forlorn Slot At the End of the Foreboding Toll Gates. The pretty, African-American woman
flashed a smile at me—not a may-I-help-you smile, but a what-in-the-world-was-that? smile—and
said, "Is that how they drive in Oregon?"
I laughed as I pulled away from the booth, as I merged back onto 101, as I merged back onto 1, as
my car chugged up the 19th Avenue hill, then coasted merrily down into Pacifica. Yes, I laughed
the entire way. At myself.
What a dork.
But my laughter suddenly ceased when my heart seized. A new and terrifying thought crossed my
mind.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 9
So, it's April Dork's Day, 2004. For sure. I'm cruising south on Highway 1 past Pacifica,
California, on my way to Santa Cruz, and this sudden and terrifying thought shatters my giddy
Golden-Gate-Disaster afterglow. At that moment, except for the loose change in my purse, I
positively did not have any more cash. And, after the conference, my trip home would bring me
right back to those Foreboding Toll Gates blocking Highway 101 at the majestic Golden Gate
Bridge.
I needed an ATM machine. But, no, that wouldn't help, since I didn't bring my debit card with me,
only my credit card. And I most certainly did not know the PIN for that!
Somehow, somewhere, in the next week, I needed to come up with another $5 bill!
Okay, now, this was serious. But, again, I was cracking up as I ran through my options. The only
other person (and fellow Oregonian) I knew who would be at the conference (besides Karen Ball,
and I certainly was NOT going to ask her!) was Sally Stuart, of the Christian Writer's Market
Guide fame. I could ask Sally to loan me five bucks so I could make it home!
No. Wait. Since Ted Dekker was going to be a keynote speaker at the conference, I brought two of
his novels with me. Maybe, if I could find a used-book store, I could sell them and make five
bucks. (Sorry, Mr. Dekker!) But it was already almost 4:30, and how in the world would I find a
used-book store around here before they closed?
No. What I needed was a U.S. Bank. I did (imagine that!) have my driver's license with me. If I
could find a U.S. Bank, I could go in and throw myself upon the teller's mercy to access my
checking account and give me five lousy bucks. Hey. It was THE plan. But, considering it was
now 4:35, I needed to find a U.S. Bank SOON.
And hey. Do you think I'm telling you a fib? Nope. As soon as THE plan came together, as soon
as I started desperately searching for a U.S. Bank, my wee car and I coasted up and stopped in a
line of cars at a red light. I blinked. Focused my eyeballs down the street to the intersection.
Looked right. And there it was. Tucked nicely into a corner strip mall, someone, years ago
perhaps, had built a nice little U.S. Bank. At this very moment, 4:37 p.m. on April Dork's Day,
2004, that U.S. Bank positively saved my bacon.
I went inside and came back out two minutes later with not a $5 bill, but a crisp $20. Hey. I may
be dumb dork, but I'm certainly not a stupid dork.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 10
Wow! Ten parts to this story already, and I haven't even arrived at the conference yet!
After my exciting April Fool's Day, April Fool's Night was blissfully quiet. I cruised around Santa
Cruz a little, found a motel, and fell into a wonderful deep sleep.
Yes. Blissfully quiet. And blissfully ignorant. I had no clue what waited for me when I arrived
the next day at the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference.
April 2nd, 2004. The day my life turned on a dime.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 11
The new day dawned, and with it, not me. I have never been a morning person and, even on that
day, I slept as long as I dared. But soon, eager to see what the new day held, I got up and dressed
and packed, then headed east toward Mount Hermon. After a quick stop for a Burger King ham and
egg biscuit, carefully following the map in my hand, I finally arrived at the Mount Hermon
Christian Conference Center. And I'm, like, "Wow." It was beautiful!
Trees of all kinds amaze me, but I'm especially awestruck by the massive ancient redwoods of
northern California, or the towering fir tucked away in pockets of unmolested old-growth in the
forests of Oregon. So, needless to say, at Mount Hermon, I felt immediately at home, struck with
joyous awe at the work of our Master's creative and loving hand.
I registered, found my room, unpacked, checked out the binder full of information about the
conference, then, wearing my name tag (and a goofy grin, I'm sure), I headed down to the dining
hall for lunch.
One of my favorite ingredients of Christian writers conferences is the food. I go to these things
fully intending to eat well, and they never disappoint. At MH, they serve the food family-style, and
mystery surrounds our table until the food is brought out and we see what's on the menu. Again, I'm
not disappointed. I eat and fellowship—food fellowship, which I've heard Michael Card say was
our Lord Jesus' favorite thing to do. Well, hey. I can see why!
After lunch, I moseyed down to the huge auditorium for the Faculty Introductions session. I found a
spot in the middle of the room and sat back as my food settled, content and ready for whatever the
week promised to bring.
At least I thought I was ready.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 12
So I'm sitting in the huge auditorium at Mount Hermon, see . . .
I'm minding my own business, paying attention as faculty members, one by one, walk across the
stage, stop at the podium, and give their spiels. "Take my class. It's guaranteed to be fun!" "But
my class will be twice as much fun as hers." "Well, my class will be the most-fun class of all!"
It was fun just hearing them talk about how much fun everyone would have.
Okay. Now I'm at that point where I have to make a confession. Of all the people inside that huge
auditorium that day, April 2nd, 2004, the one person I was hoping to see was Karen Ball. Up to
that point, I hadn't been thinking much about the proposal I sent to her weeks ago. And, really, I
was not expecting anything to come of it. But then I spotted her. I leaned to my left just a bit for a
better view.
She sat down about ten rows from me, to my left a little. And there, on her lap, was a stack of 9x12
envelopes. I had to smile. She had probably received a thousand manuscript proposals from
conferees to peruse. Every minute since her arrival, she must have been going through them. And,
not wanting to waste even a minute, she brought a stack with her to Faculty Introductions!
I tried to restrain my smile. It was hard.
Squinting, I watched as she pulled a stack of papers from an envelope and began reading through
them. My smile disintegrated. What if she pulled out my stuff right there while I was watching! I'd
just die! And I would know it right away. On my cover letter, as part of my letterhead, I put a big
cartoon of a girl reading a book as her cat sat on her knee. (I wanted it to be part of my business
logo, until I realized that was copyright infringement. Oops!)
If my proposal sat in that stack, and if Karen Ball pulled it out at that moment, I would know it. I
would watch as she read it. As she rejected it!
I tried to look away. Couldn't. Not for one second. I sat mesmerized, watching her for the entire
rest of the session. Didn't hear much of what went on. But, then, I knew without a doubt that all of
the classes I would take that week would be fun.
Oh, man. I had no idea.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 13
She worked her way through the stack of proposals on her lap. I didn't see a cover letter with a big
cartoon on the letterhead. The Faculty Introduction session of the brand-new 35th Annual Mount
Hermon Christian Writers Conference was about to come to a close.
After pulling my gaze away from Zondervan's senior acquisition editor, I checked my schedule to
see what workshop I had planned on attending next. Do I Need An Agent? by Steve Laube in
Laurel Lounge. Sounded like a good class. And a good question. If my editing clients asked me
that question, maybe, after taking Mr. Laube's class, I could answer it for them. If I could find
Laurel Lounge.
Around me the crowd was breaking up; voices and laughter mixed into the gentle chaos of excited
activity. I grabbed my bag and stuffed my schedule back into it, then searched for my map of Mount
Hermon to help me locate Laurel Lounge.
It was at that moment. I heard my name over the PA system.
To be continued . . .
My Mount Hermon Adventures Part 14
Do you know how weird it is to suddenly hear your name broadcast across a crowded room?
Why me? What did I do? Whatever it was, I didn't do it!
My name again. Sort of. I heard all the possible variables. Fleesher? Flesher? It's Fleisher—
pronounced Flyshur—but I wasn't about to shout that out.
I gazed toward the podium. A man stood up there looking out over the crowd. Below him, on the
floor in front of the stage, stood . . . yes. Karen Ball. And she, too, was looking out over the
crowd.
Looking for me.
It was then that I whispered, "Oh, gosh."
Not a very spiritual proclamation, I know. But my brain sort of short-circuited at that moment. I
lifted my hand and gave the man at the podium a wave so he would stop butchering my last name.
Karen saw my wave (I think). I didn't hear my name again.
I made my way down my row, then down toward the stage.
Karen was smiling.
One word filtered up from my heart. Lord?
To be continued . . .
| page two of my Mount Hermon adventures |
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