We stopped at Sunset Bay on our drive along the Cape Arago Highway last Sunday. Anna played in the warm, shallow water while Julia took pictures. I sat, looking out over the ocean. Earlier, I had walked out along the rocks as far as I could manage without getting my sneakers soaked. Returning to the beach, I watched as other people walked out further than I did. They wore more suitable footwear.

After a few moments, I saw someone alone up on the rocks on the far end of the bay. I couldn't tell male or female. but I noticed this person's shirt - long sleeved to protect against the cold and a blue as vivid as the cloudless sky. Without the slight haze hugging the horizon, the shirt would have faded into the background. Black pants stood out against the rock, and dark hair formed a striking silhouette against the sky.

I thought about this image for a moment. It seemed like an ideal writing prompt. One could easily write a poem or a short story based on this lone figure. I'm a non-fiction writer, though, so instead I found myself wanting to ask questions: "What's your story?" "Why are you here on this rock?" "What are you thinking as you stare out over the ocean?" The answers are probably mundane, but they might be profound. I will never know.

And that got me thinking about fiction vs. non-fiction. A fiction writer would come up with an interesting story - that's the job of a fiction writer - and ninety-nine times out of a hundred that fictional story would be far more interesting than the truth. But what about that hundredth time? Did I see some one just hanging out at the beach or did I see a small part of a story that might never be told?

I went to Mass yesterday at the Carmel of Maria Regina—a Carmelite convent about ten minutes from home. This was my second visit there in three weeks, and though I don't see it as a permanent church home for my family it is a quiet, prayerful place that I enjoy visiting.

After Mass, I was walking through the parking lot to my van. As I walked to the driver's side door, I heard a voice behind me.

"I'm surprised to see you here with those on your bumper."

He was referring to the three well-worn Obama campaign bumper stickers that have adorned our van for the last two years. This wasn't the first time I've heard a rude comment about them, but it was the first time I heard one in a church parking lot after Mass.

How Christian of you, I thought, but I refused to counter his comment with one just as rude. Instead, I got in the car and started backing out.

The parking lot is quite narrow so it took a few tries to pull out of the spot and straighten up without hitting someone. As I was about to drive off, I glanced over my shoulder. He stood there staring at my bumper stickers, like he could peel them off if he glared at them hard enough.

"What?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"What?" He sounded surprised that I was challenging him.

I paused for a moment, wondering what I'd say next. When I opened my mouth again, I think the Holy Spirit was guiding me.

"God bless you."

His scowl transformed into a smile. "God bless you too."

Last weekend, I attended my first Willamette Writers' Conference. As a newbie, I noticed many things that more seasoned writers might miss, or maybe just take for granted. Most notably, I discovered that most of the attendees fit into one of three categories:

The Retiree Writer—Fundamentally different from a "retired writer," which as far as I can tell doesn't exist, the Retiree Writer is someone who always wanted to write a book, and now has the time to do so. Usually female, 65 or older, this is the most common writer I met at the conference.

The Striving MFAs—Not all of them actually hold MFAs, but regardless of the degree, these are the aspiring career authors. They skew younger than the other attendees, usually in their twenties or thirties, almost always write fiction, and have a specific and well-researched genre. The Sci-Fi writers are mostly male, the Young Adult (YA) and Romance writers are mostly female, and the Fantasy and Mystery writers split down the middle somewhat. This group includes a small subset of "Striving J-School Grads" who write non-fiction.

The Storytellers—This is the most unusual group. They may be young or middle-aged, male or female. The one thing they all have in common is a great story to tell. One is a missionary living and working in Zimbabwe, another walked the Camino de Santiago in Spain, and another tried to write about the loss of her first husband for almost eight years before the story finally poured out of her. Often they start out writing a blog or short essays only to discover the outline of a book.

This was my group, and not to boast or anything but I found the most interesting people and interesting stories among them. Of course, I heard some great story ideas from the Retiree Writers and the Striving MFAs, but in both cases I saw people who had a compulsion to write and then found or created stories. The Storytellers are the ones who had the stories first and then felt compelled to write them.

The best part about being a Storyteller, though, is that once you start writing you discover all the other stories in your life. Build your craft and you can have something you never planned—a career as a writer.

Last year I wrote a post about the never-ending splits within Protestant churches and my own distaste for this as a "catholic-minded" Episcopalian. At the time, I said I was considering joining the Roman Catholic Church. Thirteen months later, I am not only one step closer, but I may have passed the point where I can no longer go back.

I've reached my breaking point, and it has nothing to do with the headline issues—where I actually come down on the "liberal" side— or with the deeper theological fractures like communion without baptism—where I am an unbending traditionalist. Instead, it has come down to an intolerable situation right here in Eugene, Oregon.

We left our old parish—the church where we were married and where our daughter was baptized—over a major dispute with the Rector. This dispute, involving my daughter's so-called disruptions during Mass, left us feeling unwelcome to the point where we could no longer be in that church or even in the same room with that priest.

He has recently retired, and I expected him and his wife to relocate to the Midwest where their grandchildren live. That's what I would do, and though we had no intent of returning to our old parish we were relieved that we would no longer risk running into him out in public.

Then just a few days ago I found out that he has not only decided to remain in Eugene, but he is now the "Rector Emeritus" of the parish. Instead of hiring a new rector, at least for the time being, the vestry have given their assistant priest the title "Priest-in-Charge" along with rector's workload while allowing their former rector to retain his power behind the scenes.

Ultimately, this is the vestry's call, and we really don't care how they run their parish. That same day, though, I found out that our former rector was filling in for the summer at another parish in town. A parish we might have visited not knowing he'd be there celebrating the Eucharist.

So now we're faced with the situation that we might run into him at any of the local Episcopal churches. Worse, our daughter would be with us and he, through his actions, gave up the right to ever see her again. This leaves me, as the Episcopalian in the family, with two choices: leave Eugene or leave the Episcopal Church. My wife's job prohibits the former so I'm left with the latter.

My wife will be ok. She has the same disagreements with the Vatican that I do, but she was raised Catholic and is more comfortable overall in Catholic churches. My daughter is too young to know she was baptized in an Episcopal Church, and will settle right in. RCIA will be a breeze for me, I could probably teach it myself given my grounding in Catholic theology and practice.

The hard part will be giving up all the things I love about the Episcopal Church: the liturgy, the music, the vested servers—I doubt I'll ever be able to distribute communion in street clothes—the abundant use of incense, bells, and holy water in Anglo-Catholic parishes, the chanted Eucharistic prayers, and litanies. All of these things could, and honestly should, be part of Catholic Masses, but in my experience they rarely are. Guitars and tambourines? Yes! "Smells and bells?" Not so much.

Maybe once I join I could find other former Anglicans, or other musicians interested in chant. Maybe I can find a sympathetic priest just waiting for the right parishioner to get something going. After all, I am a follower of Christ and in Christ there is always hope. All I know is that we need a church to raise Anna in and I'm left with one option.

It's time to cross the Tiber.

Last month I talked about my lucky streak finding used bibles at Goodwill. Well, as far as book selection in general goes, Goodwill is usually more miss than hit. I did find a hardback Chicago Manual of Style last week, but overall I do about as well at Goodwills as I do at yard sales.

The best thrift store for books in my experience is definitely St. Vincent de Paul. With rare exception, their book sections are large and well-organized and their prices are well below what a used bookstore can afford to charge.

Today provides a great example. I finally got around to using some of my Barnes and Noble gift card today. I purchased Expecting Adam by Martha Beck and Writing About Your Life by William Zissner for $15 each, less member discount. I also thought about purchasing The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan, which also lists for $15, but I decided to wait. Maybe I could find a better price online.

After dinner, I stopped by a St. Vincent's close to our apartment and browsed through the memoir section. Within minutes, I found a like-new copy of The Middle Place in paperback for $1.50. My reluctance at Barnes and Noble ended up saving me $13.50

From now on, I'll be checking St. Vincent's first.