The geography and times in which I live can leave me tongue-tied in the expression of my faith. As readers of this blog know, I live in the Pacific Northwest. Its coffee house milieu is a setting for militant relativism. Speaking within it requires one to learn a new vocabulary. In addition, several friends carry remnants of a childhood religion that bordered on the abusive. Religious phrases that are meaningful to me remind them of intolerance and hurt.

The need to reset my spiritual compass is one reason I attend writers’ conferences that cater to Christian writers. This week I attended such a conference. As in similar professional gatherings, I networked with other writers, agents, and editors and attended seminars on writing. However, this one, set among California redwoods, recharged my batteries and connected me with my center.

On Palm Sunday morning the compass discovered its lost direction. As we sang about love and redemption, I wept as the divine touched me and restraints loosed for a season.