I’ve walked through hotel hallways and down convention center corridors in cities I don’t call home—but ones that hold pieces of my story. Grand Rapids. Chicago. Orlando. Nashville. San Diego. Atlanta. Indianapolis. Oklahoma City. Colorado Springs. Lancaster. Lexington. 

The Evangelical Press Association conventions have always meant more than professional development. Yes, there were sessions. Panels. Interviews. Notebooks scribbled full of ideas. Tips about writing, editing, publishing. Technology I still don’t fully understand. And insights from people who know what it means to chase clarity in a crowded, noisy world.

But EPA has also meant moments.

Moments like picking the best dessert at the table. Cheesecake and chocolate cake. I chose both. They were both delicious. Moments like reuniting with familiar faces who speak a common language—approved style, biblical truth, deadline stress, word count. And others—new friends met over hallway conversations—who quickly feel like part of your lifelong story.

And then there’s something harder to explain but even more meaningful: getting to sit face-to-face with friends I usually only see in the tiny boxes of a Zoom screen or through a long email chain or in quick bursts of texting or partnering on a writing assignment. We’ve collaborated from different time zones, shared burdens through typed-out prayer requests, and traded deadlines like a game of tag. But to be in the same room, without a screen between us—to laugh together, to pray in person, to exchange stories not for publication but just because—those moments become sacred.

I remember the laughter. The strange hotel layouts. The wrong turns to breakout rooms. The interestingly phrased questions from the back row. I remember the serious conversations, too. About faith and failure. About the industry’s changes. About calling and burnout. About the weight and wonder of telling the truth well.

These gatherings have been a collage of personalities: writers and editors, designers and developers, publishers and poets. Technology experts and creative dreamers. All trying to change the world through words. Words spoken. Words written. Words revealed through art.

We prayed together. We listened. We learned. We took notes. We took time.

And for all the logistics, all the slides and keynote addresses, these conventions are mostly this for me: a reminder that our words matter. That our calling is sacred. That our work—when rooted in truth and love—still carries light into dark places.

I’ll write more about this year’s gathering in Branson. I’ll share more specifics. More names and stories. But today, I’m just grateful. For the cities. For the chocolate cake and the cheesecake. For the words.

And for the time—well loved and enjoyed and remembered.