Portland, Maine

My flight back to Grand Rapids, Michigan is delayed three hours. I had to pay to use the airport's WiFi. There is only one electrical outlet for every hundred or so seats (to use my laptop, I had to move two very heavy rows of seats to get to the floor outlet, and I only found that after I had an airport employee help me look for five minutes). I was "patted down" by security. I got stressed out because they left my belongings, including my laptop, unattended at the end of the security conveyor where other people who were not being patted down could have picked up any of it and walked away (I didn't realize then that there is no place a would-be thief could have escaped).

And here I sit, in this icon of 21st Century travel--The Airport--and after two hours of observation I see that, in this microcosmic "city" of diverse cultures, educational levels, religious backgrounds, and languages, I am smack dab in the middle of an urban universe.

My seat at Gate A2 is like my house in my neighborhood, and I operate from this location much like I do from home: I observe the neighborhood, I speak to my neighbors, I know some of the childrens' names, and I remain aloof. Uninvolved.

I ask myself: is this the city I want to live in? Where my needs are met--I have coffee, food from the sandwich bar, WiFi, a cell phone to communicate with the hub in Michigan, and there's the promise that something (a flight home) isn't far off--and yet, I'm in my own world. Faceless someones made the coffee and the food, other faceless someones make my phone connect, yet more someones hooked up the WiFi for me, and other someones will fly me home, where I will connect with family, a few friends, and probably not much with my neighbors.

I like my neighbors and I think they like me. But are we close? No. Do we have to be best friends and know and love everything about each other? No.

But I believe God wants me to connect. To befriend. To get out of my "seat" on my street and make my neighborhood the place I want it to be: friendly, caring, and personal. An urban street where people care about people, and we know each other's names.

I'm going to start with the Victorian house across the street. The house filled with young college students who are struggling to become responsible men. In the four years that house has been a student residence, I've met only one person who resided there for one semester. That's no way to build a vibrant neighborhood; to create the foundation for a vibrant city.

God wants me to do more.

*Photo: First snow on autumn leaves in Deborah's yard, Grand Rapids, Michigan. Photo by Deborah Johnson Wood.

Urban Living in Maine

Blogging from: on location in Ellsworth, Maine -- blogging from The Maine Grind coffeeshop on Main Street -- a cool place

I'm a city girl at heart. I was raised in the country on acreage my dad farmed to grow winter wheat as a cash crop to supplement his earnings as a mechanic, and then a postmaster, and I was surrounded by the neighbors' orchards and farms. But though I identify with farmers and those who make their livings from the land, my blood runs urban.

I didn't know this until I moved to the city--Grand Rapids, MI--in 1976. Until then, I swore I'd never live in the city. Now I can't imagine being anywhere else.

This week, I've been on vacation in Downeast Maine; my first vacation alone. I came here to a remote peninsula overlooking Pigeon Hill Bay, to a 600-square-foot cottage with a TV that gets just one channel, no Internet, and the ocean waves lapping at the shore just 30 steps from my front door. I came to detox from city living, working on deadline, and, mainly, to follow my dream of coming to Maine. And while I have craved the alone time, and have enjoyed it, I'm surprised that I am much more comfortable in the city.

And I'm much more aware that God is found in the city, as well as he is found in nature. I see the hand of the creator in the full moon that greets me upon my arrival to my cottage, in the saltwater that crashes the rocks outside my door, and in the sea birds that haunt the beaches for mussels and clams after the tidewaters recede.

But sitting here in this coffeeshop with it's sunflower yellow walls, its dark walnut wood trim and cabinetry, the ancient, stained wood floors, I realize that God is in this old building.

I had a wonderful chat about church and priests and community and Catholicism with the lady who owns the Celtic Rainbow shop in this building. That conversation was filled with laughter, a commonality of experiences though we come from very different backgrounds and different parts of the country, and an appreciation of our spirits. How refreshing!

Yes, cities can be dirty, can be filled with crime and criminals, and can be places where people are surrounded by people and yet are still lonely.

But to this stranger, this small metropolis has helped me realize that the 40-mile drive to "town" was the prelude to a personal connection I wouldn't have had without the city.

Yes, a personal connection can happen outside the city, too. It does every day. But it didn't happen that way today. Today, it happened in the city, and I was the blessed recipient.

*Photograph: Congregational Church, Ellsworth, Maine by Deborah Johnson Wood