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Erin's GA JOURNAL: 
Reflections from Erin Cox-Holmes

It’s Off to GA We Go

Here’s what it took to get out the door on the way to GA:

Cast of characters: Kent, aka "Daddy" going as a Minister Commissioner. He’s Vice-Moderator of the Christian Education and Publishing Committee. Kent is packing one suitcase of clothes. And 3 suitcases for all the documents sent by the truckload. Amazing factoid #1: Kent has actually read every page.

Mom. Known to her colleagues as Erin, Mother Hen, or the "computer lady." Erin spends GA dashing from briefing to meeting, and, in between, writes up stuff for the webpage.

Graham: 12 year old son staying with a buddy. Graham goes off with several totally cool pairs of shorts, and a week’s worth of paraphernalia for asthma management, allergy management, video game management, and contact lens management. Plus a week’s worth of instructions from Mom and Dad directing what should be used when. We harbor no hopes the complex schedule will actually be followed. Keeping our little guy breathing has been a central focus of our lives for the last dozen years. We’ve never left him for longer than 2 nights. Now we’ve got a week away – just the 2 of us – at the annual denominational convention. Figures.

Meredith: our 4 year old daughter. We’ve parked her with her preschool teacher for a week: a single mom with 4 kids, who will lovingly absorb one more. Meredith is drip-dry healthy. When she gets a cold, she takes pink stuff and gets over it. What Meredith packs is her entire stock of stuffed Barneys and Teletubbies. She seems to be handling the news of our departure extraordinarily well. We discover the reason why in the car on the way to her temporary family: "Mommy, while you and Daddy are in Long Beach will you cruise by every night to say nighty-night?" If I think about that one too much, I will never get on the plane.

Monty Python: the family pet. Monty is stocked with fresh water, and has been fed 2 mice. When we leave, one mouse is still in the cage, curled up right next to the sleeping snake. When we get back, they may be best friends. One time, when we went to visit the Science Center, the workers invited Meredith to pet their hamster. They asked her if she could guess its name. She answered, "Lunch??" That’s the last you’ll hear about Monty, I promise.

We entrust both children at their respective havens. The wills have been freshly updated. I’ve bought somebody to water all those flowers I’ve just planted. The bills are paid. I think. By the time we park in the cowfield of our little neighborhood airport, I am utterly drained. I haven’t got a clue how to make the transition from frazzled mom to church professional.

In Long Beach, the cast will expand. Joining us from our presbytery will be Wayne Yost, executive presbyter, Marie Bahn, elder commissioner, Emily Gress, YAD, Betty Grunstra, as part of national Presbyterian Women’s Coordinating Team, and Gary Lyon, a YAD advisor.

Now that I’ve been here 2 days, I walk the halls gazing into the faces of those I pass. Who did he leave behind? What things done and undone occupy her inner soul, while she gives every appearance to attending to all the goings on here? Kent says GA reminds him of an adult Triennium. It’s Reformed Summer Camp, complete with group meals and the threat of mudfights. But, unlike carefree 10 year olds, who knows what each person here left behind to make this pilgrimage?

How lucky we Presbyterians are that we still have such dedicated folk, staff and volunteer alike, who will do whatever it takes to make the week-long trek. The next generation will do it all in one day, through live video-streaming to their palm pilots. Just watch. For now, as the 212^th GA gets into gear, we schlep our stuff to our room, and venture out to make the transition to the hereness and the nowness of it all.

No longer moms, dads and Little League coaches, we slip on our name tags. By the color coding we become instant commissioners or staff or observers or advocates. You can pick out the east coasters, because they are the ones out jogging at 4 in the morning, California time, and nodding off at 8 p.m. But the practiced ones model it for the newbies: the ubiquitous nametag, our passport to our common GA identity is what binds us together. The nametags make us one.

Later, when we go to visit one of the GA hotels, the Queen Mary, forgotten nametags still riding on the bow, the staff waves us into the "hotel guest" only area. "Welcome back" one says. The last time I was on the Queen Mary was 20 years ago in high school. They can’t tell us apart under the nametags.

In the Kiski Contingent, we commiserate with Marie, who got here a day and a half before her luggage. As it all begins, I toss prayers like seagulls to the wind:

Oh–and May Marie’s luggage get here. Real soon.

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