It was only a dream...

This, by the way, is my one hundredth post on this blog. I'm not sure that's a relevant number considering how much I lost forever in the transfer from the old digs, but it seemed worth mentioning. I've grown to love writing here, and hope to find more bloggable events as time goes on. Thanks for reading.

For me, the toughest part of attending a conference is spending the entire day 'on' in a cave-like exhibit hall under the buzzing, harsh overhead lights. I always try to get out as often as possible, just to breathe a bit of fresh air and feel like a part of the real world for a few minutes before heading back in.

It turned out that today, as luck would have it, I had the opportunity to skip a luncheon and have three straight hours in which nothing in particular was expected of me. Really, there wasn't a choice to be made. The luncheon was out.

I spent the first hour in the hotel lobby, sitting in an oversized chair overlooking the river as I returned phone calls and answered e-mails. When I was caught up enough to ease the mildly encroaching feeling of panic, I headed outside.

Spring in Chicago is a time of tender hope. The cool breeze that sighs along the river smells vaguely of growing things - it is fragrant evidence of the tentative tulips, the struggling-to-be-green grass, and the tiny buds breaking from their sleep in winter branches. The newly returned birds chirp their surprisingly chipper songs. Faces turn up to the soak in the first hints of warmth.

I wanted to move. To walk. To melt into the crowds as another anonymous face on the street. To be one with the city. To thrive on the contrasts of urban life, and feel the vibrant hum beneath my skin.

Up Columbus, with the sun on my back. With my light coat buttoned to the top and a flimsy scarf wrapped around my neck, I wasn't even the least bit chilly. Down Ohio, through the shade past a crowded Thai restaurant. Up Saint Clair, passing a Starbucks I can remember visiting long ago (though I can't remember why). Left on Ontario, then suddenly finding myself swept into the madness that is Michigan Avenue at lunch time.

It wasn't until I turned north there that I realized where I was going.

Jostled by the crowds, waiting for crosswalk signs, watching the wide variety of characters with whom I shared the sidewalk, I found it easy to feel comfortingly isolated within the crowd. Men in suits, women with collagen addictions. Babies in strollers, men led by seeing eye dogs. Girls in skinny jeans and skinnier heels, boys with too many tattoos. Homeless folks propped against lampposts holding cardboard signs. Street musicians with open suitcases slowly collecting loose change.

And me.

I passed by the Coach Store. Tiffany. The Pottery Barn. None drew my interest. Nike Town, The Apple Store. Saks Fifth Avenue. I crossed the street at the Water Tower, and kept north. Another block, and I was standing before one of my favorite places in the entire city.

Tucked slightly back from the street, the quiet stone building is easy to miss if you're not looking for it. With its arched walkways, grassy courtyard, and heavy wooden doors, the Fourth Presbyterian Church stands in stark contrast to the sleek, fashionable towers surrounding it. The outer door, open to the vestibule, invited me in.

I graciously accepted.

I stepped inside, and allowed my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. It was warm - more doors, more stone. Chandeliers designed to mimic elaborate candelabras, the intricate pattern painted on the sloping wooden ceiling.

There were perhaps ten people in the church as I walked slowly up the aisle. My heels clicked against the floor in an all too loud rhythm, breaking the muffled silence that filled the space. Carved, winged angels peered down from above, and I slipped into a pew to gather my thoughts.

God and I haven't spoken much as of late, it seems. It's not as if there is any animosity between us - it's just that our schedules just haven't seemed to coincide very well. I knew, though, that a Presbyterian Church was as good a place as any to find him. I leaned back in the pew, closed my eyes for a moment, and said hello.

He didn't immediately reply, which is generally his way, but a church is generally an easy place to open your mind and invite the big man in for a visit. I sat quietly, waiting patiently, and opened a bible to see if he was hiding in there.

I didn't find him in the book of Job, the Psalms, or even Isaiah. So I looked around me, wondering where he could be.

To my left, a man with a heavy winter coat pulled tightly around him huddled in a corner. At the altar, a man in a Chicago Bears sweatshirt turned toward me and walked down the aisle. In the very back, a woman stood with her eyes closed and her lips moving in silent prayer. A girl with a heavy backpack stood looking up at the windows.

Nope, not there.

But off to the right, at the far end of a pew halfway up the aisle, sat a couple. Both were dressed for the cold - he in a camouflage coat and stocking cap, she in three coats and a scarf. He was propped against the wooden edge, leaning at an impossible angle. His arms were wrapped gently around her shoulders. Her head rested against his chest. Both of them, as judged by the sounds of quiet snoring, were fast asleep there, at noon, in the Fourth Presbyterian Church. In his sleep, his lips curled up into a smile.

My phone began to vibrate in my pocket, and I hurriedly stood to make my exit to the vestibule, where I could answer. It was my friend Greg, politely declining my offer to buy him lunch. He had meetings scheduled all day, but asked if we could get together next week. It sounded like a plan to me. I walked out, also smiling.

I walked south, back among the throngs. The sounds of the street enveloped me again, and I thought about how lucky I am to have such good friends. It wasn't until I was almost back to the hotel that I realized that I had indeed found God there on Michigan Avenue, after all.

He was lurking in what really should have been a very obvious place - in two very different smiles, on the faces of two people whose paths will likely never cross again.

He's sneaky like that, I guess.