Three questions for you today – leave your responses to any or all of them in the comments section:
1) What is your worst road trip experience?
2) Ask a question, anything related to our trip, and I’ll answer it later in the week.
3) What’s your favorite brand and flavor of ice cream? (We’re kind of obsessed.)
We prepare to leave the small campground outside of San Francisco. The old couple from the neighboring RV comes over to our bus to talk. The wife is direct and assertive and eager to say that when she first pulled up and saw we had four children, her heart sank. But she gushes over the kids, collecting their names and ages like butterflies to pin on a board, saying over and over again how well-behaved they are, how she can’t believe the HOURS they played quietly at the picnic table between our two vehicles.
Her husband stands quietly behind her, tossing one-word interjections into the conversations (disarmed grenades). She mostly rolls her eyes at him or waves her hand, as if he is a pesky fly. They watch as I hook up the van. They wave as we drive away, though we’ve only spoken to them for about five minutes.
The mountains of California shed their houses as we drive up and east. Altitude: 2000 feet. The trees grow tall and straight, cedars or pines or some other evergreen. In the distance we see snow-covered peaks.
Today
You were far away
And I
Didn’t ask you why
What could I say?
I was far away
You just walked away
And I just watched you
What could I say?
How close am I
to losing you?
Sam, our youngest, only 2 1/2 years old, is our scenery buff. When the bus is still he terrorizes us with his sticks and his loud, growling shouts of “Show yourself, Red Rackham!” But when the bus is moving, and we wheeze up into the mountains, and Maile and I start shouting for the kids to come and look at the amazing sights, he is the first to come shooting up the bus aisle, launching on to the sofa or the booth, staring out the massive windows.
Long after the other kids lose interest, he sits there, arms resting on the narrow window will, nose pressed up against the glass, constantly imploring me to take some dirt road or to get closer to the edge of the bridge. Every mountain is a ‘cano (volcano). Every narrow river stream is a waterfall. In other words, he lives in a perpetual state of amazement, enraptured by this journey we so bravely take through a land of volcanoes and waterfalls.
Tonight
you just close your eyes
and I just watch you
slip away
How close am I
to losing you?
We stop close to the peak – Altitude 7200 feet. The shadowy ground off in the evergreens is covered in an icy layer of snow. I can only imagine how deep the snow must have been at one point, if small drifts of it have survived to see this 70-degree day. Massive rocks bigger than our bus poke through the ground like broken bones. Whispers whisk through the trees, secrets I can only know by following them into the shadows.
I take in a deep breath of the cold air and walk back to the bus, leaving those secrets to be discovered on some other journey.
Hey
are you awake?
Yeah, I’m right here.
Well, can I ask you
about today.
How close am I
to losing you?
How close am I
to losing you?***
We descend back to earth. We stop at a truck stop, where we will spend the night. I step out of the bus for a breath of fresh air. Some sort of beaming light at the back of the bus attracts my attention. I walk toward the west, toward the mountains we have just crossed over.
It’s the sun, dropping down behind the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Great clouds of dust billow around us.
***The italicized words come from The National’s song, “About Today,” a staple on this trip.
I’m writing this on Sunday night in the bed at the back of the bus. It’s peaceful in here: the three oldest kids are in their bunks with the occasional complaint about an early bedtime; Maile is writing at the front of the bus; and Sam just crawled into bed beside me, sucking his thumb and turning his blanket around and around and around, looking for the corner where the label sticks out.
Monday, the day you’re probably reading this, represents a rather momentous day for us: for the first time in three months and over 5,000 miles, we head east. Our trip began back in February when we headed south down the east coast, meandered through the southeast in March, drove west through Oklahoma and Texas in April, then cruised north up the California coast.
But on Monday we head east.
* * * * *
So many feelings surface as I consider heading east: relief that the trip is almost over; dread that the trip is almost over; excitement to see what the next few months will hold; fear about what the next few months will hold. Heading east means returning to friends and family, a community that we miss and the place I grew up. All good.
But this adventure, in its messiness and its fast pace and its immediacy, sometimes allowed me to overlook the everyday, pressing sorts of big picture issues I’d rather not be thinking about. Such as the fact that my current projects end in June. Such as the fact that right now we do not have a home. Such as the fact that we’re not sure where we will end up. Such as the fact that our travel expenditures have exceeded our budget by a good bit (thanks, diesel prices).
Returning home from such an adventure means laying aside the exciting for the practical, the unexpected for the everyday.
But I’ve concluded that this, also, is a good thing. The adventure, while it lasted (and continues to last for the next month), has broken many areas of my life down to their most basic elements, and then allowed me the space and time to build those areas back up. My marriage. Being a dad. Writing. Mile by mile, I’m reconstructing myself.
* * * * *
So tomorrow we head east. It’s hard to believe. There isn’t a whole lot that I can tell you about what my life will look like in a month’s time. Where we’ll live. What I’ll be doing for a living. But as I write those words, I realize that whatever does happen will simply be a continuation of this grand adventure we’ve been on, and I’m okay with that.
Better than okay – I’m eager for it. I’m eager to live this life. Just about anything is possible right now. I’ve decided to let that fill me with a sense of anticipation, and not a sense of worry.
Thanks in advance for traveling with us down the home stretch. You all have been such great traveling partners. Time to head for the sunrise.
What did the end of your latest adventure look like? How did the transition back into normal life go?
My daughter Lucy pulls herself up into the top bunk in the hallway of the bus and pulls the shade. Later, I peek my face in and ask her what she’s up to. But at first she doesn’t hear me – her face is intent on her next drawing. In the corner of her bunk I see Madeleine L’Engle’s A Swiftly Tilting Planet. Lucy is smart, and she is kind especially to her smaller brother and sister. She is brave. And there is a strength in her that she inherited, not from me, but from her mother.
* * * * *
At the beach, Abra immediately drops to play in the sand. Then she rolls over on to her back and makes a sand angel. Then she lifts handfuls of the stuff and pours it into piles. Abra is our beaming child, so full of energy and smiles and messy life that she will not be constrained. She is so unlike me, and I love that about her.
* * * * *
Having two daughters, then, it is no wonder that this verse in Psalms reached out to me a few days ago. I can’t stop thinking about it:
May our sons in their youth
be like plants full grown,
our daughters like corner pillars
cut for the structure of a palace. (Psalms 144:12 NAS)
Wow. Corner pillars. That struck me as a particularly strong image, one that reverberated in my mind. In this verse, the sons are portrayed as plants, while the daughters are corner pillars. Which sounds stronger to you in this instance? Which is supporting the weight of a massive structure?
I wondered to myself: Am I giving my daughters the support they need to become, not the pretty little things our culture so often encourages, but the strong “corner pillars” the psalmist envisioned?
* * * * *
I tremble as I write this post, not knowing why.
I wanted to find out more about this verse, so I checked it out on an online resource, looking into the various translations. Here is the New Living translation:
May our sons flourish in their youth like well-nurtured plants. May our daughters be like graceful pillars, carved to beautify a palace.
Interesting. The image of strength that rose my mind in the other translation is here slightly overshadowed by the words “graceful” and “beautify.” Appearance takes precedence over the characteristics of strength and structural support. Perhaps a one-off, I thought to myself, moving into other translations. How about the New King James Version?
That our sons may be as plants grown up in their youth; That our daughters may be as pillars, Sculptured in palace style.
Closer to the NAS, but “sculptured in palace style” still left me with the feeling that looks trumped strength. Finally, I turned to The Message. I love The Message. I love the freshness of its present-day language and creativity.
Make our sons in their prime like sturdy oak trees, Our daughters as shapely and bright as fields of wildflowers.
The Message completely reversed the original intent of the older translations, placing the image of strength and sturdiness into the blessing granted to the sons, while blessing the daughters with the image of flowers and shapeliness. It seems the more recent the translation, the more appearance-based the blessing.
What?
* * * * *
I’m not a Hebrew scholar. Please feel free to point out in the comments any mistakes I’ve made. Seriously. But I turned to a few tools online to aid in breaking this verse down:
Apparently the word “corner” in that verse comes from the Hebrew word we write as Zaviyth meaning “corner.” Duh. Interesting though, that it may come from the same root as the masculine Ziv, meaning “brightness or prominent.” Prominent corner?
The word “cut” in that verse comes from the Hebrew Chatab, meaning “to cut or carve.”
Stay with me, because most interesting of all, the word palace comes from the Hebrew Heykal. In the NAS, this word appears 80 times. In 14 of those cases (including this verse), the English word used in its place is “palace.” But in fifty instances, the English word is “temple.”
Temple.
The place of worship.
What if this verse had been translated as
our daughters like corner pillars
cut for the structure of the temple
How would that impact our view of our daughters, or of the role they play in our lives and our churches as they enter womanhood? What if we saw them as structural necessities, and not peripheral contributors? Maybe you already do.
I hope you already do.
* * * * *
Although I am constantly awestruck by the physical beauty of my daughters, I will not encourage them to find their value in it. The years will tear at it. Others will objectify it. An accident could alter it. And in the end, death will destroy it.
I want to be part of a community that places an importance on our daughters, not because of their fleeting physical beauty, but because of their importance, their strength, and the absolute necessity of their presence.
May our sons in their youth
be like plants full grown,
our daughters like corner pillars
cut for the structure of a palace.
Facebookthreadinfluentiosis:
n.
1. the sickness/delusional belief that one can affect meaningful change in another human in the course of a Facebook thread, either by superior logic, snarky comments, demeaning attacks, or linking to a particularly life-changing recipe on Pinterest
a. characterized by self-righteousness, argumentativeness, or the lack of understanding that Facebook users:
1. inextricably link their profiles to their own persons (ie “Look at me! This is who I am! This is what I do!”)
2. are legally bound NOT to ever use the phrases, “Good point,” “I was wrong,” or “I take it back”
3. think cheesy pictures with slightly altered cliches constitute a well-formed argument
b. usually also accompanied by a lack of awareness that Facebook itself:
1. is set up in a way that escalates conflict through the use of notifications of ongoing comments
2. draws others to the fray by use of the newsfeed (ie Jane commented on Sam’s status: “You’re an idiot”)
3. discourages people from unfriending because if they do, the person they want to unfriend will no longer see the spiteful comments meant for them to see.
Side effects include: high blood pressure, hatred towards high school friends who hold different political views, excessive time spent on the internet, the feeling that the world is “going to hell in a handbasket,” broken computer mouses, carpal tunnel syndrome, fingernails bitten down to the quick.
Related diseases:
– Argumentitis
– Blogpostinfluentosis (the likes of which the writer of this post may or may not be suffering from)
The Redwood trees stood massive and solemn, some close to 300 feet tall, some over 500 years old. I felt small and insignificant under their kind shadows. Like an ant. Or a long-forgotten worry.
They once stood silently while the first Europeans docked their ships and slid small boats up on to the sand of East Coast beaches. They grew slowly, ring outside of ring, oblivious to the world tightening around them.
* * * * *
“I have to go potty!” Abra exclaimed somewhere deep in the Redwood forest.
We had left the last “potty” about a mile behind us. I looked at Mai and shrugged.
“I’ll take her back if you can herd these three,” I suggested, motioning towards the other kids.
So Abra and I walked back the way we had come. She occasionally darted ahead to show how fast she could run, her long blond hair waving back at me. Just as quickly she stopped, her butterfly-like attention grabbing fully on to anything that interested her.
“The letter ‘A’!”
“Look at that little bird!”
“I want to kiss that lady!”
Almost at the restrooms, she ran over to one of those small podiums with some information about an interesting something or other.
“I want to read this,” she said.
“What about the potty?” I asked.
“No! I want to read this!”
So I lifted her up so she could see the words (she can’t read yet, but she pretends that she can – usually her pretend reading is way more interesting than what the words actually say). The display explained the strange grove of trees right in front of us.
* * * * *
A huge grove of six or seven Redwood trees gathered, each one three to five feet in diameter. They had grown in an almost perfect ring. In their midst stood the charred remains of an old Redwood. Before some ancient fire it had reached up higher than a fifteen-story building. Now it was barely fifteen feet tall. The outside of it was black, the hollow inside crumbling.
The old blackened Redwood must have died in a forest fire. But its roots had survived, and out of that underground life sprang the circular grove of Redwoods in front of us. The fire could only kill what was above ground, and after a time the new trees grew up out of the old roots.
* * * * *
I so badly want my here-and-now to be the thing that survives. I work so hard to protect it, to nourish it, to save it from the fire.
But what if my “today” must die in order for such prolific life to rise? What if the destruction of this current beauty must take place so that the root of something even more glorious can push up new shoots through the darkness?
