Our nine children and their families have all arrived with us at the Airbnb. Some people flew, with layovers and rushing through the terminal. Others drove for a full day, blasting music to stay awake. Our luggage came with us, along with assorted projects to keep us busy, and the first installment of edibles. 

I was pleased to discover that the owners of the cabin seemed tuned in to our needs, without having met us. There was shampoo and conditioner in the bathrooms, along with fresh towels, a wide range of pots and pans, and the password for the internet. The dozens of light switches are all labeled, which helps as we wander between rooms in the dark. 

It's almost as if they have had visitors before. Of interest to me is the needlework sampler which names in ornate letters the marriage of the founding couple. Over fifty years ago they began life as partners, and at some point established this gracious home in the Laurel Highlands. Probably their children manage the rentals. 

There are no photographs of the owners, though there is a series of six drawings that catch my attention. They depict characters in The Tempest, and beside each figure are scraps of the fabrics used to create the ensemble. I imagine that the matriarch once had a promising career as a costumer, and these capture her memories of the rush that happens before opening night, and the flurry that is inevitable when transforming people from this century into Shakespearean nobility.  

I will ask my questions about the drawings in the guest book. Perhaps she will choose to explain it to me. But imagination can suffice.

It feels good, the anticipation. Knowing, or at least believing, that someone got ready for us, as much as we prepared to be here. It echoes the comfort I find in knowing that God is sprucing up a sweet spot for me.