Being in the moments

SEATTLE -- Walking through the security checkpoint at the airport was just awful. If Noah had yelled and pitched a fit it would have been easier. Instead he waved bye-bye with his lower lip trembling as he tried so hard not to cry and I can’t even write about it now without tears coming to my eyes. I have been so excited to embark on this trip, but leaving behind those three people who matter to me as much as breathing was excruciating.

So it was hard to get going, but I got on with it. And then I started to get excited again. I am not a happy flier, so I spent a good portion of my puddle jumper flight to Detroit in prayer: I really hate small commuter jets. Then my next flight was delayed an hour due to some sort of mechanical issues, so that flight became a five hour event. And while I sometimes found myself thinking, “When is this ever going to end,” for the most part I took advantage of those hours to immerse myself in the glory of God’s creation far beneath my plane and the glory of his handiwork nearer at hand.

I met a woman who is Catholic, but whose eyes have been opened to the all-encompassing body of Christ which is not restricted by the boundary lines of denominations. She has decided that she now identifies herself first as a Christian, second as a Catholic. How Christ must rejoice each time another member of His body drops her walls and chooses unity.

I met another woman who boarded the plane with two small children, a baby, and a car seat in tow. I was in awe of her grace under pressure, her patience with her children, the way she looked frazzled and exhausted by the end of the trip but never once raised her voice in frustration. And I met a third woman who, observing the mother’s plight, turned around in her seat, took the baby from her and provided any form of comfort and assistance she could throughout the entire flight. Compassion, mercy, grace, strength: God’s heart demonstrated for all to see.

I listened to teachings and finished a book I loved. And each time I was tempted to wallow in boredom I looked out my window and thanked God for billowy white clouds casting ponderous shadows on the ground, ripples of mountain ridges wandering across plains, and the peace that passes understanding as I drew closer to my destination.

Bombs and Tidal Waves

It feels weird posting this having gone no farther today than my grocery store and back.

Yeah, There and Back Again – the day-by-day adventures of one man’s perpetual search for single-serving juice boxes while fearlessly facing the ancient paradox of whether or not to purchase nearly-expired-yet-deeply-discounted organic milk all while fighting off the infinite demands of a nearly-four-year-old boy’s never-ending lust for all things sugared and the siren wail of a nearly teenage 8-year-old girl and the withering hail of her sigh-tipped “are we almost done yet?” arrows.

The thing is it has felt like an adventure. And like all good adventures, this one has been full of surprises already.

Like, for instance, grocery shopping not only wasn’t that bad, it was actually pretty enjoyable. Okay, I really did have some trouble finding the right juice boxes and, yeah, I really did wrestle with the “Manager’s Special” milk and whether or not we could drink it before it turned sour. (I opted to go for it, because, you know, I live on the edge like that.)

But the kids were just awesome. I wish I could take some credit for subtly manipulating them into the pair of remarkably helpful, well-behaved junior shoppers that they were, but I am at a loss.

Both pushing their own little carts (gotta give props to Krogers for those carts) Amelia and Noah, dare I say it, joyfully engaged through more than an hour of aisle-by-aisle shopping. They were excited about which fruits we would get. They actually debated over which vegetables to buy -- and not with me (!) but between themselves. She wanted broccoli and he wanted cauliflower and yes, I know I am bragging here, but they agreed on their own to go ahead and get both. Amelia, the consummate doting big sister, took her brother to go load up on yogurt (yes, on their own) and then, when I realized I had forgotten hotdog buns back at Aisle 1, they went back to get them even managing to find the whole wheat variety as requested.

Unending pleas for candy and pre-pre-pubescent bitchiness simply did not exist on this trip, unlike so many earlier forays. By the end of it, all three of our carts were full and everyone – most especially Daddy, was happy.

That is not to say there have not been challenges. Or, that is to say, without the double negative, that there have been challenges. Take for instance the bombs that keep exploding in the kitchen-dining-living room. Gathering like a growing tide of debris that began on Monday with Noah’s birthday party even before Marley left and cresting over tonight with the carrot cake cupcakes that we made for Noah’s playgroup tomorrow, the downstairs is currently awash like a tsunami-strewn disaster area. I have tried to keep up, but I have, so far, failed.

Bombs and tidal waves. Like the sailboats and elephants of not so long ago, I appear to be mixing up my metaphors again.

The thing is this really is an adventure for me. For so many years, adventure meant trotting off to crazy places while Marley, more often than not, held down the fort and cleaned up the messes. What I'm learning... no, what I'm really just immensely appreciating right now is what a grand and wonderful adventure life is right here within the fort itself -- bombs, tidal waves and all.

Meanwhile, I am thankful that Marley gets a turn a bit of trotting. I am as vicariously nervous, excited and thrilled for, with and about her as I think is possible. Her adventure truly is my adventure.

There and Back Again -- Revisited

I remember the view clearly.

I was still getting used to the slight bounce in the drivers seat of the Heart of Gold as we made our way down the initial stretch of road that would be the very first of some 5000 miles before us. We were really only a few minutes out of our driveway and I couldn’t help but notice the first shards of corn plants cutting through the tilled earth, jutting out in a blur of perfect long rows like tiny green swords arrayed in endless formations across the vast Ohio farmlands as we rolled on by.

That image would be the first in a long list of pictures I wished I stopped to take and yet remain clearly in my mind’s eye just as if I were holding a 3 by 5 right now. Like the two horses standing opposite each other like some equine yin-yang symbol scratching each others’ backs with their snouts. Or the remains of an old filling station that we passed in Missouri, after missing an exit, the victim, I am sure, of being bypassed when the interstate arrived in the 50s, now almost completely reclaimed by nature’s arms. Or the soft look in the eyes of the young hitchhiker stepping into our mobile, rolling world on the very last leg of our journey home.

But it was the mental snapshot of those newborn blades of corn that has really stayed with me since we’ve been home. As we arrived back I was shocked by how much they had grown in the four weeks we had been away. Where they had been barely a thin inch or two when we left, now thick stalks rose above my head, already heavy with long silky-green ears. As the plants fill out, the corn crops transform wide-open fields into tall, thick forests that leave you feeling like you’re driving through tight corridors of green. Through the summer months and into fall, that image would come back to me again and again while driving errands or on my periodic runs along the rural roads branching out from our home.

It seems strange how long it takes before the harvest begins and how long it takes to finish. Only in the past week or so – six months since we began our trip -- have the last sections of field been plowed through by the combines, with the golden mounds of the farmers labor hauled off to silos in trains of tall, tractor-pulled wagons.

And so I guess it is no surprise that I find myself recalling once again those tiny green buds as Marlaina begins the first day of her trip back to Seattle, the final stage of her application process to Mars Hill Graduate School. There, and now back again. The kids and I dropped her off at the Columbus Airport this morning and I already miss her terribly.

Not a week has gone by since our return home where I have not thought about returning to this blog, continuing it perhaps or maybe – as some have encouraged – at least trying to “sum things up” somehow. “I know what your favorite part of this trip was,” I remember Marley telling me, with the certain smile only enjoyed by a good wife who knows her husband better than he knows himself. We had been trading favorite moments even before the trip was over, but she had me pegged. “Your favorite part has been writing the blog.” She meant it approvingly, understanding that it did not lessen any of the other aspects of our trip, but somehow brought it all together. And she was right.

And yet it has been hard for me to return to it. There was something about the simple purity of writing each day during our travels that made it easy. Meanwhile, so much craziness has ensued since we’ve been home. It has just seemed impossible.

Until tonight.

Perhaps because it only seems natural to write when we are apart. For so many years that was the only good thing that defined our many long absences. And in the final years, the words even became miraculous.

Or maybe, like the harvest, it’s just time.

Back Again

NEW KNOXVILLE, Ohio -- We are home.

And it is good, so very good.

The Last Leg

MERRILSVILLE, Illinois -- It was 408 miles to Chicago. We had a full tank of gas, half a pot of coffee, it was dark out and we were not wearing sunglasses.

Eight hours later we had cleared the Windy City and passed well into in Indiana before finally deciding to call it quits for the night at sometime around three o'clock in the morning. I am pretty sure we could have driven straight through to watch the sunrise over Ohio and be home shortly thereafter.

Wisdom, however, trumped all-night-driving valor and we decided to get a few hours sleep at the local Mejier's parking lot, which -- like Wal-mart -- is RVer friendly.

Probably all for the best as Chicago -- and the long road into town -- lived up to its name. The wind was probably the worst of the trip. At times we were getting smacked around so badly it felt like we were doing a hip-slapping tango with a drunken Sumo wrestler on roller skates.

And even in the wee hours of the morning, Chicago traffic made for a wild ride. The inner city Interstate connection to the highway that would lead us to into Indiana will perhaps win the award for "Most Harrowing" of this trip, although the judges are still consulting. The Heart of Gold was forced to navigate through the longest-yet-narrowest, single-lane, no-shoulder, concrete-barricade-encased, under-construction stretch of highway I have ever seen. The Heart of Gold is 95-inches wide. I'm pretty sure this "road" -- more aptly described, I think, as gauntlet -- was only 94-inches wide. It was that narrow.

At times there was razor-wire-topped fencing passing, I'm not making this up, within inches of my left ear. It felt like I was driving through the DMZ in Korea or the Green Zone in Baghdad.

Anyway, we made it through, got what can only be described as an extra mediocre night's, um mornings', sleep and now with freshly-bought provisions of Dunkin Donuts and coffee aboard, we are set to begin, this, the very last leg of journey home.

We might just be there by noon, if -- as Marley and the kids are reminding me for only the first time on this trip -- I can quit writing this blog and get going.

It will be good to be home again.

Capturing the Enormity

MINNEAPOLIS, Minnesota – It has been the perfect final harbor for our long journey, this stop here among our family in Minneapolis. It has been the ideal mix of sleeping in, quiet book reading on the couch, long talks, eating at fantastic restaurants, and playing with the kids and just watching the kids play together. All with the same sense of comfortableness and ease of self that only comes among family or the very best of friends – or most especially when it is both, as here.

Angie and Brett have taken a bold path, recently moving here from Texas where they have lived for most of their 15 years of marriage. Brett has been given an amazing job opportunity here, but as with any new job pursuit it has its share of uncertainty. I admire their dedication to keep their family first -- and together -- even amidst the angst of new pursuits in new places.

We have come to visit in the midst of their transition. While looking to buy a house they have rented a townhome for a few months. Despite its transitory nature, Angie has done a remarkable job of transforming brick and mortar into a real home, as well as a place of love and safety for her kids. Marley and I did the same thing when we moved to Ohio, renting a duplex during our few months of house hunting, but never achieved the level of settledness that Angie and Brett have found here in far less time.

Yesterday, we made our obligatory pilgrimage to the Mall of America. If you come to Minneapolis, you go to MOA. It’s like Cairo and the Pyramids or New York City and the Statue of Liberty or Munich and Oktoberfest, if you happen to be there, you know, in October, or, as the case may be, November, which inexplicably is when it happens that most of Oktoberfest occurs.

At any rate, I was prepared for a big mall, worthy of its name. I was not, however, prepared for what I have since learned is listed among the "1000 places everyone should go before their die." Simply put, the Mall of America is more than just a really, really big mall. In its center is an amusement park. I knew there would be rides, even a “roller coaster,” but this is a real amusement park. There are in fact two roller coasters, a log ride, a climbing wall, a three-story Ferris Wheel and slew of other gut-turning, head-spinning, scream-inducing thrill fests. All of this, mind you, is inside the mall.

Inside.

With air conditioning. That alone was worth the price of admission.

The mall itself is four stories up with all the usual assortment of stores, eateries and movieplexes, except there’s more than 500 of them. There’s also an aquarium, a police department – not just a little office, but a real PD – a post office, a wedding chapel, the coolest collection of Lego creations I have ever seen, a church, a university campus. I’m pretty sure there’s an airport in there somewhere, as well. To say that the Mall of America is big is like saying this roadtrip has been long – it doesn’t quite capture the enormity of it.

As impressive as it was and as much fun as the kids had the best part of our visit here has been in the simple moments – a quiet dinner with Brett and Angie Friday, sitting around the living room talking together late into the night yesterday, a late breakfast in PJs this morning even as I write this. All laced with the subtle, irreplaceable quality of time spent together, sharing hearts and stories and moments.

Indeed, I find it amazing that after having known Brett and Angie for 15 years now that there are basic stories that I have not heard yet – like how they met and feel in love while they were in college. I got to hear that story last night at dinner and was touched. Later as Brett and I drove in his car together, he shared more of how thankful he was the cookies that he and Angie had made that fateful day provided the perfect excuse to come get to know this beautiful girl who had caught his eye. I can tell he is still thankful.

We begin the last leg of our journey home this afternoon. Google Maps tells me we have 688 miles between this home and our own. “About 11 hours and 22 minutes,” it reads.

It seems such a drop in the bucket considering the time and distance we’ve traveled so far and yet I know the last few hours are always the longest. We’ll make whatever distance we can today and then finish this most excellent of roadtrips, we hope, by the end of the day Monday.

It will be good to be home. Indeed, like saying the Mall of American is big, saying that it will be good to be home doesn’t quite capture the enormity of it.

New RV?

Dear friend and fellow blog-traveler Diane R. was kind enough to forward these images along. I don't know if this RV has a heart of gold or not, but it certainly seems to be built out of gold. And I'm guessing it takes more than a few pounds of the stuff to buy it.

Taking donations now for next years' road trip....

July 4ths, Past and Present

MINNEAPOLIS, Minnesota -- I think this road trip must be wearing me out. After a noon arrival at Brett and Angie's full of fanfare -- with much waving, signs and I think there might even have been tickertape -- I promptly passed out on their couch in the middle of a conversation about something that I'm sure was very important, although I swear the only thing I remember is a vague sense of someone laughing at me just as I was drifting off.

I like to think this was a backhanded compliment, and I sincerely hope it was taken this way, that I would be comfortable enough among this family to become so quickly comatose, sprawled out before them, within minutes of our arrival.

They have a good and comfortable couch, excellent for passing out on. Which is good because apparently I slept for several hours, awaking only as everyone returned from a trip to a nearby playground.

Angie and Brett made us a wonderful dish of grilled chicken and shrimp fajitas that was eaten down to the very last crumb. From there it was over to some friends' house who had perhaps the best yard possible for watching Fourth of July fireworks. It was a great show with lots of ooohing and ahhhing, and not only because that's what you do, but because there were a lot skysparkles that none of us had ever seen before, including one that I'm pretty sure was a smiley face.

A year ago, I spent the 4th at the lake of my youth where I spent nearly all of my summers with my father. Spofford is a small lake that sits like a lower hinge between the New Hampshire and Vermont. Some of my fondest memories growing up revolve around Spofford.

When I was Amelia's age, it was the Nation's 200th Birthday and my father, his brother -- forever known to me as Uncle Ka-kas (don't ask) and I had just completed refinishing an old whaling longboat that we'd gotten out of an old woman's barn. Painting it in long stripes of red, white and blue had been my idea and it looked grand to my seven-year-old eyes. We put an old Johnson 30 horsepower engine on the back and Marc, my best of childhood friends, and I drove it proudly around the lake by ourselves in the Fourth of July regatta that year.

There were many uncertainties in my life as a child, but the Fourth of July at Spofford Lake was always something I could count on. Even now, so many years later, it feels strange to not be there.

But last year I was at Spofford, for the first time in a very long time.

I had been staying with Alice, my father's widow, for about a month and was preparing to leave. Before Pete's death, Alice and I had never really taken the time to get to know each other. We had, however, been fellow travelers in Pete's descent. I wish we had become friends sooner, because it would probably have been easier for both us and maybe even made a difference in Pete's situation.

But, as they say, better late than never. And in this case it that could never have been more true. Alice is a very special woman, who carried herself through the most difficult of times with a such a degree of quiet grace and dignity that even now is hard to imagine. I learned a lot of this, and so much more I didn't know, during my month with Alice last summer. Our days were filled with a lot of crying and laughter, often like a series of passing rainstorms, switching quickly back and forth between the two.

We did what people should do when they're mourning -- we ate a lot, we talked a lot, we cried a lot, we ate some more and we talked some more. While I lost a father, in the end, I gained a stepmother. And if there was any redemption in Peter's death, I cannot think of better.

I have struggled this past year with the horrible images of how Pete died. They have haunted me. Shortly before the 4th last year, I finally worked up the courage to go to the hotel where he killed himself. I felt compelled to speak to the person who had found him. I didn't know what to say, an apology seemed somehow inappropriate, but I wanted to recognize the terribleness of it. As it turned out, it was the same person who greeted me at the front desk as I walked in, part time hotel maid, part time receptionist. A shadow crossed her face, when I fumbled through my introduction. I could tell she was still very effected by it all. The trauma was still very real.

As she stood by saying very little, the manager told me of my fathers last few days of life. She said he had been so nice and friendly. How it was such a shock.

It. That unspeakable thing that he did, that for a few moments we talked around, but never actually about. I told the woman who had found him how sorry I was that she had to see such a terrible thing. She wiped away a tear, trying to maintain her composure. I felt awkward, unsure of myself, of what to say or do.

And then she looked me in the eyes, her own eyes still moist, and she thanked me. They will forever be among the kindest words I have ever heard.

As I drove the Heart of Gold to Minneapolis yesterday, thinking of July 4ths past and present, I was hit like a ton of bricks once again by what that woman must have seen when she opened the door. Tears rolled down my face as I imagined what Pete's final moments must have been like. How terribly alone he must have felt, how painfully hopeless he must have thought he was. As I drove and cried I found myself wishing that I could have been there. To tell him he was not alone, nor hopeless, but loved, so very loved.

And then I heard the words, "But, Jon, I was there." And then in my mind I saw it so very clearly. A man, like a light in the very heart of darkness, standing there in the room that night, crying, holding Pete as he died, praying "forgive him father, for he knows not what he does."

I'm not sure what to make of that and I feel awkward, the most awkward in this blog so far, in sharing it. But I will say this, it was remarkably comforting, like an undeserved gift. One of the things Aram told me that Sunday at Lookout Mountain is that God does not call us to shame. I believe that shame, like any pain, can be a good indication that something is wrong, but Aram is right -- God doesn't call us to shame, but only to love and to be loved.

I have a friend who is going through a particularly difficult time right now. The other day I read something in a book Marley and I have been reading throughout this trip by Dan Allender that immediately made me think of him.

“Hope compels us to live for the future by pouring ourselves out as offerings to God in our relationships with others. The primary way we give God glory is through loving others. Evil intends for us to succumb to betrayal by giving up on relationships; it intends for us to resign to powerlessness by giving up on the future. Once we lose faith and hope, then we are more susceptible to ambivalence and shame. But just as God restores faith and hope, he redeems shame and births love. He calls us to dance with unbridled passion.”

I sent him that passage the other night, the night before we drove here. I don't know if it has made any difference for him specifically, but they have resonated deeply with me. This trip has been that kind of passionate dance for me, of restored faith and hope, redeemed shame and remarkable, remarkable love.

Happy Birthday America

JACKSON, Minnesota -- After a long day of driving, we made it all the way through the Dakota badlands yesterday and into Minnesota. We began the morning just outside Mt. Rushmore National Memorial, hoping with an early start to see the four granite presidents.

We saw them. But only through the windows of the Heart of Gold. As we approached the park entrance, their faces looking down not so far in the distance, we were told that the parking lot was already full. While I would have loved to spend hours there, in the interest of getting to Minneapolis soon than later, our intent was to do little more than Chevy Chase and his family did at the edge of the Grand Canyon in Vacation. (If you've never seen the movie, it's worth it for that scene alone.) So, our enforced driveby got us on the road to Minneapolis a little earlier.

We left Scott and Deb's Monday morning. It was a great visit.

One thing I didn't mention was that in addition to everything else that was going on with their granddaughter, they also had Deb's parents visiting from their home in Oregon. They were wonderful people and even after so many years of marriage, still doting on each other, holding hands, taking care of each other, cracking jokes, clearly still very much in love. They are an inspiring vision of marriage in sunset as it should be.

On Sunday we all went to Church together and then were fortunate enough to be in town for the Great Montana BBQ Cook-off with "downtown" Absarokee blocked off so that dozens of the most skilled open-flame chefs in the area could show off their skills. My favorite, remarkably, was the Ahi, a yellow-fin tuna marinated and grilled to perfection. I raved so much, the cook -- a self-professed "good ole boy from Billings who just likes to cook" -- was kind enough to slip me his recipe stashed in his pick up truck around the corner.

Sunday afternoon, Scott saddled up one of the horses for the kids. Amelia rode -- really rode -- by herself for the first time and I took Noah for a few laps around the corral. Amelia was ecstatic. Noah was thrilled.

What most impressed me, though, was Scott's willingness, even eagerness, to do this for my kids. I think it is safe to say that by Sunday evening, after the emotional roller coaster of Abigail's emergency all week, staying up late talking with us, getting up before dawn to tend to the many chores of his ranch, preparing for and teaching Sunday School class, doing a therapy session after church, and then hours out in the hot Montana sun at the BBQ, only followed by more ranch chores through the afternoon, that he was flat out exhausted.

Plus, getting a horse ready for riding is no small task in and of itself, all the more involved with the "help" of a seven-year-old girl.

Scott must draw his strength from a very deep well because he seemed as patient and attentive and eager to teach my little girl the basics of horse care and riding than if had he been relaxing all day. Thanking him at one point, as he was saddling Texas, the horse we would be riding, he turned with an undeniable gleam in his eye, and said, "Oh, this is the fun part for me." I could tell he wasn't just being gracious, but that there was real joy in this for him.

But the thing is, I sensed that joy in everything he did, whether it was feeding his horses, sitting at his wife's feet for a momentary break while we all talked in the living room, preparing his lesson, loading a small forklift onto a trailer or talking to his daughter at the hospital, whatever he was doing throughout the day, there was an inner joy pervading it all. He was not just happy to be doing what he was doing at the moment, but there was that undeniable mixture of peace, gentleness, thankfulness and verve -- what I can only describe as joy.

The same could be said for Debbie, as well, who also wears a tireless, gentle, eternal smile on her face. We miss them both already. Indeed, even as we were just pulling out of their driveway Amelia asked, "can we come back here again?" And I don't think it was just because of the horses.

This morning we are bound for Minneapolis to spend a few days with Angie and Brett and their three kids, Justin and twins Grace and Garrett. Angie is Marley's cousin and life-long partner in crime. They are the ideal final stop for us on this long trip. They know us better than anyone and yet somehow still love us anyway.

Safe Harbor

ABSOROKEE, Montana -- We arrived at Scott and Debbie's home none the worse for wear. Just as Darrell said, the brakes returned to their previous RV-stopping vigor and we made it across the remaining mountain pass without barely a single white knuckle.

It is after even a few full days of travel since leaving Washington, very good to be here. Again, I find myself drifting back the boat metaphor -- this feels like a safe harbor.

Scott and Deb have built a home and a life in Montana that is very simply our kind of place and with our kind of purpose. Scott was first an armor and infantry officer in the Army and then chaplain and therapist. He retired from the Army a few years after we met him in Germany, but he has far from retreated from a full life of work and service and, in fact, now continues as part-time pastor at the local church and as full-time therapist, aside from the enormous workload of being a rancher with more than a dozen horses, several head of cattle and innumerable cats and dogs.

Although they've lived in their house for less than a year now, and indeed some details are still under construction, it already has a lived in quality and warmth that takes many people years, if ever, to achieve. Decades of practice moving at the beck and call of the Army no doubt has helped perfect their art of nesting, but there is unmistakable heart to their home and their life here now that resonates deeply, more permanently. Roots are digging in. This is a place to watch, love and nurture friends, family, grandkids and great-grandkids for years to come.

As it turns out that dream was, at least in part, in jeopardy through this past week. Abigail, their four-month old granddaughter, child of their daughter and son-in-law who live in an adjacent house, had become life-threateningly sick. They didn't know if it was cancer or some other unthinkable ailment, but something was undeniably wrong with Abigail's head. A worried trip to the local hospital led to a rushed visit to specialists in Billings which led to an even more frantic race to the children's hospital in Denver. Within hours, the child was undergoing brain surgery.

This was all going on as we were making our way from Washington to their home.

Amazingly, Scott and Deb decided not to tell us any of this until after we arrived. "We knew you wouldn't come if you knew this was going on, and we wanted you to come," Scott told us. Even as we were arriving they were just getting the good news. Abigail would be fine. The problem was not cancer nor any of the other nightmare scenarios. Instead, it was a birthmark of the rarest kinds, that grows on the inside of the skull instead of on the face. Untreated it would very quickly have killed her. Although there was some slight damage to the rear of her brain, the extent of which remains to be seen, all thing considered her prognosis couldn't be better.

It was a remarkable way to begin our visit, with the joy not only of reunion but with the kind of relief that can only be known by prayerful parents and grandparents on the far side of a life and death struggle.

I admire their strength and insistence on giving even amidst all their angst. We have been here only 24 hours, but already this place feels like home to me, their ease and hospitality is that generous.

Worst Kind of Tourists

(Apologies, again, for tardy posting. We have these past few days been off line, again. Here are a few days worth of musings.)

YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK, Wyoming -- We're stuck. But hopefully not for long. It has been a full day of driving through Yellowstone and now, almost out, with one more high pass to clear, we find the brake pedal going, disturbingly, all the way to the floor. Even more worrisome is the part where it doesn't do anything to actually stop the vehicle.

This started to happen, fortunately, just after we had come down from a steep mountain pass and not during.

But, like I said, hopefully this won't be a problem for very long. Even more so, we hope, it won't come back when we're driving along that aforementioned steep mountain pass still needed to be crossed.

I have spoken to two mechanics and have been given assurances. The first, a local mechanic, although on the other side of the twice-now-aforementioned pass, who apparently deals with this kind of thing a lot, told me that in all likelihood the break fluid had vaporized, which sounds bad, but he assured me, is not too big a deal. The trick he said, is to just let everything cool off for about an hour or so and and everything should be back to normal. I do not know this mechanic, however, and am only able to trust him so far with the lives of my wife and kids. I could live without me, but I could definitely not live without them.

So, I needed further assurances. Fortunately, Darrell, my aforementioned friend of a previous post who also happens to be a world-class mechanic who I do trust with the lives of my wife and kids, after a bit of testing and guided probing of the Heart of Gold, verified completely what I had been told.

So, we're waiting for things to cool off.

In the meantime I can tell you that Yellowstone is a complete dump. Trees and dirt and rocks everywhere, water spraying uncontrolled all over the place, animals getting in the way of me getting through the park. Plus these pesky mountains. Not only that, but I got yelled at. By the park ornithologist, or at least that's who he said he was, although in my opinion ornithologists aren't really to be trusted. Especially the ones who yell at me.

As it turns out I deserved it, though. In my defense, the 13-year-old girl who worked at the check-in at the campground we stayed at last night told me that you couldn't stop and park in front of the bald eagle's nest, which was high up in a tree not long after you got into the park, BUT you could park down the road a bit and walk over to it.

This is exactly what I did. It was early morning and we were among the first people into the park, the kids were just waking up, and it seemed a reasonable enough thing to do. I hiked up a bit, not all the way to it, but close enough to watch the mother eagle standing proudly in her nest looking things over in that way that eagles do from high atop trees. I took it all in, snapped a few pictures, and turned around to make my way back to the HOG.

That's right about the time when the ornithologist drove by and started yelling at me. Apparently, it was people like me that caused "the eagles to fail." I'm pretty sure those were the words he used, which I remember thinking was ironic because I had just read the day before that the bald eagles had just been taken off the endangered species list. I didn't say that of course, just continued to apologize profusely while he yelled at me some more and told me how I could be taken before the Yellowstone judge, be fined a lot of money and that there were millions of people who came through this park every year and I, surely, must be one of the very worst, etc, etc. I agreed and, for some reason, began hearing verses of Alice's Restaurant floating through my head, specifically the part about the police taking a bunch of "8x10 color glossy photos with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining how it was to be used as evidence against me." I didn't mention that either. I just kept apologizing and promising that I didn't know and that I would definitely never, ever do it again.

But that's not what I came here to tell you about.

I have felt like the worst kind of tourist here. And not for the reason I just mentioned. At least not mostly. Yellowstone National Park truly is, aside from being a dump, a national treasure. The outdoors have always been a place of worship for me, a place where I find it so much easier to connect with God, so I was not kidding when I described it earlier, even more seeing it, as a national cathedral.

In short, it is a place I could imagine spending a lot of time in. To try and drive through in a day has been like walking around Disney World, but not going on any of the rides -- it looks nice and all, but you're missing so much of the joy, so much of the point. And then, on one of the few moments I step toward a ride, Donald Duck yells at me and, of all things, tell me to get back in my car.

Yellowstone, clearly, is a place that you could spend days, weeks, even months and still not take it all in. This is the kind of place where I could really go camping. Just so we're clear, RVing is not camping. Yeah, they go park in places called campgrounds, it's still not camping. Anytime you literally bring the kitchen sink, it's not camping. Not my kind of camping, at any rate.

To me, camping is stuffing enough food and water for a few days to a few weeks into an unbearably heavy backpack and stumbling around the woods and mountains as far away from other people as possible and pitching tents and freezing in sleeping bags and lighting fires and smelling of smoke and getting dirty and eating meals that tastes all the more exquisite for having been carried around so and looking up at impossibly bright stars and saying things like "it just doesn't get any better than this." That's real camping. Not pressing a button and turning the couching into a bed and turning on the furnace when it gets a bit cold. But I digress.

Yellowstone is place where I could do some real camping. But alas, we have only enough time for the windshield tour.

We did, however, pay our obligatory respects to Old Faithful. Unexpectedly, it was every bit as awesome as our imaginations made it out to me. Right on cue, it burst forth, sending spray and steam high into the morning sky. Even Amelia, who has been hard to impress on this trip, gasped with delight. Noah was absolutely dumbfounded and after its several-minute-long eruption, asked innocently, "can we do that again?!"

My favorite moment, however, came from hearing the stories of others. Heading back to the RV, I spotted a pair cleaning the logcabin-style bathrooms near the entrance to Old Faithful's stage.

While Marley and the kids went to fix some breakfast, I cut a beeline for them. Bathroom cleaners have the best stories. Turns out John and Verna were husband and wife, both forest service employees, with as they admitted freely "the best jobs in the world." Both retirement age, they had been working in Yellowstone for 10 years. John estimated he'd seen Old Faithful do her thing no fewer than 3,500 times over those years.

"I always stop whatever I'm doing and watch. It's impossible for me not to," he said. Surprisingly, it's not so impossible for many of those 3 million visitors they see come through the park every year.

"A lot of people," said Verna, "see it go up and then run back to the parking lot and leave. You'd think after traveling this far they'd wait a few minutes and see the whole thing." As park custodians they see the very worst in the tourists, having to follow behind them to pick up their messes. "I still can't believe people would litter in place like this, but they do" said Verna shaking her head sadly, holding up the full bag of trash she'd already collected this morning as if to prove she wasn't making it up.

One of my favorite questions to ask people is "what's the craziest thing you've ever seen?" John and Verna both had some pretty funny stories, some of the most ridiculous involving people running out to Old Faithful to try and look down into the hole from which she erupts.

Invariably those people "get an all expense paid trip in the back of a squad car to go see the judge and get slapped with a $1000 fine," said John.

"Yeah," I said, sheepishly, "I've heard about that judge."

While our visit has been all too brief, Yellowstone has revealed many of her jewels to us. Whole herds of buffalo, lone riverside bison, distant bear, boiling mud, wandering deer and moose, amazing vistas, unforgettable terrain.

And brakes that, hopefully, now have fully healed.

And an eagle that I can only hope was not nearly as scarred by my proximity as I was by the ragings of an irate, if perfectly justified, ornithologist.

Big Sky Country

WEST YELLOWSTONE, Montana -- There are only a few of these united states that I have not yet been to. Montana is the first of three that we will be traveling through over the remainder of our trip.

I must say it is spectacular. It has all the forest, lake and mountain grandeur of Colorado, but without all the schmaltzy (but tolerable) western touristy gift shop type stuff. Sure, it has some of that, too, but not in nearly the same quantities. That probably has something to do with there being so few people out here.

Montana is ranked as the fourth largest state (behind Alaska, Texas and California) but with less than one million people calling Montana home, it has the third lowest population density. I'm not sure how the math works out but it seems like one person for every hundred thousand miles or so.

Regardless, there's a lot of room to spare. Taking up much of that room, at least on the western side of the state, are the mountains. If the Rockies are the backbone of the country, Montana is its right shoulder. Apparently there are no fewer than 77 named mountain ranges in Montana jutting out of the Rockies as they climb their way up into Canada.

All this is pretty convenient considering Montana means "mountain" in Spanish. We drove until almost midnight last night those mountains. It was easy and comfortable, much of the time with the road all to ourselves. Not long after nightfall, as the Heart of Gold swayed gently along the highway, a full moon rose over the undulating ridgeline, the mountains rising like gently rolling waves around, making me feel in those moments much more aboard ship than elephant.

Just as I began to feel tired, Lolo National Forest appeared as the next exit with easy docking for our vessel. We were up again with the rising sun with the kids still sleeping as we slipped back into the current this morning, passing through some of the most awesome scenery yet. At one point, I watched a bird of prey, I am almost sure it was a Bald Eagle, rising aloft not far in front of me with a fish in its talons still dripping from the mountain river it was just snapped from.

As we crossed over more of those 77 ranges today we were reminded of our homeward baring, once again crossing over the Continental Divide. We made it to this the western entrance to Yellowstone National Park by around 2 pm. The Marley and the kids are swimming as I write. We will rest and play for the rest of the day, perhaps later going into town in search of some of those elusive schmaltzy gift shops.

Early tomorrow, we hope again with the rising sun (and of course assuming the starter still works), we will begin our foray into Yellowstone and later that afternoon arrive at the fair havens of Scott and Deborah's ranch.

Dumbass II

Revenge of the Incompetent

(Note: Too far off the grid to post this last night. Trying to make up for too much lost time today to post until now.)

LOLO NATIONAL FOREST, Montana – I am tempted to just let this one pass. It’s because I don’t come off well. Just dumb. I’m worried that some of you will begin to see a pattern here.

So, when last we left this story we were waiting for the mechanic to bring the new starter. Larry arrived almost on time. He immediately reminded me of my friend Darrell, and not just because he was a mechanic, but because he had a quiet confidence to him, mixed with just the right amount of warm friendliness.

It was clear Larry knew where to find the starter on 454 Chevy crammed up into the nose of the Sunstream Motorhome. It took Charles and I no fewer than 10 minutes to find its hiding place up behind the right tire (and Charles had a bit of experience with these monster truck engines) but Larry went right to it.

Although Larry had the starter with him and could just as easily have gone straight into dropping the old one out and putting in the new one, he – thankfully – wanted to make sure that it was in fact the problem. After a bit of testing with the volt-o-thingy, he looked puzzled. There was no power going to the starter.

Ah-ha! I thought, that would explain why it’s not working. Oh, but that might mean something even worse.

Larry went over to his truck, disappearing for a moment only to reemerge with a single small wire bare on both ends. He said he was going to bypass something or other in an attempt to isolate the whatchamacallit. In non-technical terms, I think he meant he was going to hotwire my RV.

With me in the drivers seat, he shimmied himself back underneath the belly of the Heart of Gold. Unlike in cars, where the hood of the engine is out in front of you, you know, out where the engine is, in the Heart of Gold the guts of the machinery are actually inside the RV sitting between the driver and passenger seats. The “hood” is actually a lid that normally serves to hold my coffee, roadmaps, various books that Marley might be reading or a laptop or what have you.

But right now, it was opened up so that Larry and I could talk while he was about to work his mechanic’s magic from up under the bowels of the Heart of Gold. That’s when he said those words that will no doubt haunt me for many years to come.

“Okay, I’m about to connect the wire, just make sure it’s in park.”

Larry, at this point, was interested in self preservation. If it wasn’t in park, and his little wire did what he thought it would do, the whole RV could lurch forward or maybe backward with him under it. I’m just guessing here, but like trains, buses, tractors and other big machinery, I think it’s probably best to not be under RVs whenever it is they decide to start moving.

That’s when I saw it. And like a tidal wave, my stupidity came crashing down along the oh-so-vivid and not-so-long ago memory of me backing the RV into its berth the night before. Backing. As in reverse. As in “R” -- which, as it happened, was exactly the letter I was staring at on the little dial above the steering column.

In my defense, the “R” is right next to the “P” which stands for park, which, as it happens, is right where you want it when you’re trying to start the engine. Here’s a picture, just so you know I’m not making this up.

I find it interesting that when you’re in “R” and trying to start the engine how, in almost every way, it seems like you have a bad starter. Every way, except, the starter actually being bad that is.

In fact, when you move the gear shift from “R” to “P” the engine will start almost immediately. Remarkably, the only delay you’re likely to find is the time it takes you to turn the key. And this, as it turns out, is exactly what happened.

Larry was remarkably gracious only charging me for the service call and not the time it took him to prove that I was an idiot. More importantly, he did not point and laugh at me. I thanked him for that and, not that he needed my permission in the least, invited him to make me the butt of all his jokes for at least a few days… once we were gone.

So, after another 4 p.m. take-off, we’ve made it deep into Montana, bedding down among the pines of this national forest which I see is dubbed Lo Lo, which sounds more like a Teletubbie than a national forest, but who I am to judge. I don’t even know how to start a silly RV.

Two Moments and a Man Named Charles

MOSES LAKE, Washington -- I had a moment this morning, two actually, woven together in the same space in time. It happened as I first emerged from the RV, shortly after waking. The kids were just rousing and Marley and I were trying to pack things up and get an early start.

We are parked on a slight hill, overlooking the lake a few dozen yards away. As I turned to admire the view, I saw scuttling along, not far away, a very fat beaver. As I walked up, he sensed my presence and began to scurry away. I froze and he stopped. He seemed to be trying to determine if what he had heard was an actual threat. If I was even real. He faced me, his eyes squinting. He stood on his hind legs, little front paws dangling, trying, by the look of his flaring nose, to smell what he clearly could not see.

I stood there motionless except for the wide smile cresting across my face. We stood there like that for some time, facing each other, him squinting and smelling, me smiling. After awhile, he dropped back down on all fours and just went about his beaver business.

While all this was going on, the lake was alive with carp jumping high into the morning sun. It was like a meteor shower in water, brief flashes, everywhere, darting quickly, leaving only splashes of light and water in their passing, wondrous and fleeting.

I have been left wondering if these two images are perhaps windows into how God might see us. In one breath, an endless series of timeless moments with him standing right before us, smiling, as we squint and sniff wondering if he's even there, perhaps even running the other way when he reveals himself to us, but more often than not too busy to stop and simply return the smile.

And in the same breath, he watches us all flashing brilliantly, flailing wildly from that which holds us under, reaching for that invisible strange world just on the other side. Those moments when they break through the water must be mindblowing for fish, a whole impossible other universe suddenly surrounding them. I think they jump because they like to eat bugs. But still it must be a rush to leap into the light and see things for the first time. Of course, bugs are good, too.

We are stuck at Moses Lake suffering the first real casualty of our trip. Our starter is dead and we wait for a new one which should be here any minute. Once again, our traveling mercies have come in the form of good neighbors, this time a man named Charles, a retired ironworker and builder of bridges and high rises. Charles' son is a football coach at Boise State on his way to a new job this season at the Citadel.

Charles was kind enough to see us in need and without us ever needing to even ask for his help was soon driving me around town in search of a new starter and a mechanic willing to come install it. It seemed like a joy to him to be helping a stranger in need. Still, I couldn't help thanking him.

"Look," he said with a wide smile, after what may have been the third or fourth thank you, "I really believe that if you treat people the way you want to be treated that things just work out okay. There have been plenty of times when I was in your exact spot and someone came along and helped me. Now I'm helping you, but pretty soon it will be me again needing help again and you -- or whoever -- will be there to bail me out."

Now, I'm just trying to enjoy the break and doing my best to smile back at God.

Elephants and Sailboats

MOSES LAKE, Washington -- Getting back into the driver's seat of the Heart of Gold has rekindled an internal debate I've been wrestling with since we started this trip.

Is driving this six-wheel, 30-foot-long, 10-foot-4-inches-tall, home-on-wheels more like driving an elephant or a sailboat?

Having never actually driven either, my answer is of course purely conjecture. But I have been on both, so I may perhaps surmise a bit.

Elephants, few would argue, are an undeniable presence on whatever path they happen to be on. Things tend to get out of an elephant's way. They also posses a certain lumbering quality. They are not fast, nor are they particularly agile, but they have strength and staying power and, in the end, can get you where you need to go. Well taken care of, they tend to be loyal and true. Hannibal went to Rome on the back of an elephant.

All of which could also be said of the Heart of Gold (except that last bit about going to Rome.)

On the other hand, sailboats conjure the very essence of adventure and can stir both the body and soul with wind-blown passion. You can live aboard a sailboat. Sailboats are also at the mercy of nature. Strong gusts can move sailboats in sudden, unexpected directions. And bigger boats don't really care if the captain of a particular sailboat is new and still getting his sea legs and really would prefer to go 60 mph, not 85 mph, thank you very much. You don't really have to know exactly what you're doing to pilot a sailboat, but it sure helps. Hannibal ended up losing to the Romans because he didn't have enough sailboats.

Again, all of which could be said of the Heart of Gold (and, again, except that last bit about Hannibal.)

Anyone who has stood on the side of a highway as an 18-wheeler zooms by knows they are a force of nature unto themselves. I was unprepared, however, for the micro hurricane-like effect they have had on the Heart of Gold. As they pass there is this surge of wind that literally moves me -- us, the whole shebang -- several feet to the right. This is not an occasional thing. It happens every time.

I have become Pavlov's dog at the wheel of our RV. Every time I hear the sound of a Big Rig coming alongside, my mouth begins to salivate as I grip the wheel in anticipation of the correction I know must soon come. It's like playing with two positively charged magnets, how one can push the other around. It's like that. Only on a much bigger scale. And I'm the one getting pushed around. In my big, many ton, fast moving, RV.

And then, of course, there are the actual gusts of wind. I have grown to dread the signs. "Strong Winds Next 50 Miles" or "Gusting Winds Possible." One sign in the high deserts of Utah, I swear, actually had a wind sock on top of it, just you could see they weren't kidding.

The worst winds so far, though were in Oregon. I got my first taste just as we crossed the state line from Idaho, which as it happens is the Snake River. Trundling over the bridge, a quick gust picked us up and moved us into the other lane. At least it felt like it picked us up. We were suddenly in the left lane, at any rate, and I hadn't done a thing except instantaneously crap my pants.

There were some winds again like that today, invoking pretty much the same result.

So, elephant or sailboat? I'm still not sure, but in the meantime I need to do some laundry.

We have arrived tonight at Moses Lake, about an hour shy of Spokane. The picture above is the sun setting just as we were arriving. If you look closely there's a line of more than a dozen young geese making their way across the lake, parting it if you will.

Anyway, not bad for a 4 pm start out of our campsite. I will not say it was a late start, however. We left when were were good and ready, when we felt rested and ready to go, not rushed out the door trying to beat the clock as we did from Denver. I may be be a dumbass, but at least I learn my lessons.

Oddly, that reminds me of a line from the Jungle Book...something about an elephant and never forgetting. And what's that other line, from Seuss... about an elephant being faithful, 100 percent.

Yeah, I think I'm going to go with elephant.

Bittersweet Departures

CAMP LAKEVIEW, Washington -- Marley is returning our rental car and we are preparing to launch on our return trip East. It is a perfect day here, bright and beautiful, temperatures sitting in that elusive sweetspot that is both pleasantly cool while being warm enough to not need a sweater.

It is bittersweet leaving. As with Colorado, we find ourselves yearning for more days here. Our time so far has been a quick blur and there is so much more we would like to do. On the other hand we are bound still for new territory and old friends and dear family. We are very much looking forward to the second half of this trip. Indeed, it does not yet feel like we are so much "returning" as continuing on.

In the meantime, I thought I might get caught up in posting some pictures.

Hope you enjoy...

On Mars Hill

"One does not live on bread alone, but every word that comes from the mouth of God."
-- Jesus of Nazareth

"Some drink deeply from the river of knowledge. Others only gargle."
-- Woody Allen

Our time at Mars Hill was coming to an end. Marley, Crystal and I were sitting in the overstuffed chairs near the streetside entrance to their big red brick building in the heart of downtown Seattle. The school sits on a block flanked on one side by an outreach house for jobless people and on the other side the opulent Edgewater Hotel overlooking the Seattle waterfront and the Olympic Mountains in the distance.

Crystal works in admissions at Mars Hill. She had arranged for Marley to sit in on a class on Friday and was now giving us the tour of the 100-year-0ld, three-story building that until January had been the abandoned, bird-filled remains of an old luggage factory.

I had not thought of this question ahead of time, but it came to me as good questions often did when I worked as a journalist, as conversation unfolded.

"What is it," I asked her, "that has gone terribly wrong here?"


At first blush, Mars Hill might seem like a strange name for a graduate school. A sci-fi art institute maybe, or perhaps a John Gray seminar for men only -- being, you know, that we're from Mars, not Venus.

But a grad school?

For aspiring therapists, no less?

The name actually comes from one of my favorite passages of the Bible. It's the part in Acts where Paul finds himself in Athens. If Rome was the center of the political world at the time, Athens was its cultural heart, a crossroads of trade, thinking, religion and art.

At a place called Mars Hill, or the Areopagus as some translations put it, Paul tries to explain the gospel on the Athenian's own terms, by way of their own "unknown god," not trying to shun or shame them for their idol worship as much as help them see how God was already at work among them.

This, if I get what they're doing accurately, is what Mars Hill is all about -- entering into places of both pain and joy, understanding how culture celebrates creation and creator as much as exposes brokenness and darkness and embracing the idea of story -- and God's part in writing yours or mine -- as a path towards forgiveness, healing and wholeness.

Entering. Understanding. Embracing. These are my words, not theirs. But I think that's the gist.

In their literature, they are just as quick to quote Woody Allen as Jesus of Nazareth, E.B. White as Jeremiah. "At MHGS we'll invite you to delve into issues of faith and life with freedom, depth and curiosity," writes school president Dan Allender to prospective students. "Our hope is to invite each other into a transformational conversation where God is revealed and we are changed. And as we engage with God's story, our own, and the story of our culture, we'll begin to experience together a God who is not distant or without a name."

I pretty much knew all this before I went to Mars Hill yesterday. I had read their literature. I had read Allender's books. But it's easy to write things. What I wasn't sure of was whether they were the real deal, whether they practiced, forgive me, what they preached.

Crystal didn't flinch at my question. She took it. And rolled it around in her mind for a moment, not in the way that I've seen so many others do with the tough questions, as a delay tactic while they figure out how to dodge the question without seeming to, but as I would see, really pondering it.

I did not ask because I had any reason to believe that something specific had gone wrong, but only because I knew every institution -- every work of man -- will sooner rather than later break, fail, hit bumps big and small, self-inflicted and otherwise. The mark of a good institution at least in part must be in the honesty with which it meets with those problems, the transparency with which it wrestles with them and the integrity with which it reconciles the harm that has occurred.

Honesty. Transparency. Integrity.

Crystal's answer floored me. Without revealing unneeded details or drifting for a moment into gossip, she was honest about the problems the school has encountered. She told us about how Mars Hill has tried to use even its scandals as a tool for teaching and growth and -- most importantly for me -- she was clear that despite the best intentions, there have been times when they have "absolutely blown it."

Any one of the pieces of her answer might have been good enough. But there was a completeness to it that I appreciated. But mostly it was that she was willing to tackle it at all and not try to sugarcoat or downplay or minimize. In truth, she took all of our many questions like this -- unflinching, candid, open.

There was another moment that has stuck with me. As we toured the campus, for over two hours, our conversation, full and rich as it was, took many detours and side turns. At one point conversation strayed very briefly into a place of pain for me. It was very momentary and, hypocritically perhaps, I tried to downplay and weave around it. But Crystal caught it. And she entered it, offering only a soft "I'm sorry." It was unnecessary, but real and appreciated.

Crystal, obviously, is not Mars Hill. But she is a graduate and went through the same program Marley is considering. Marley was able to spend quality time with several others and we both met Dr. Allender briefly and spent enough time at the school to get a sense of its vibe and personality.

In the end, I could see why Marley was so excited, so effervescent, from her visit on Friday. It is, in short, a very special place. The reality of moving here, however, is daunting as much as it is exciting. While just as the mountains and seaside thrill me, the cost of living and, worse still, the ever-present traffic and congestion are serious downsides.

We have by no means made a decision yet, but as we prepare to leave here we are much better informed and, truth be told, inspired than when we arrived.

Tomorrow, we begin the first leg of our journey home. On our way to Montana, where we will visit with Deb and Scott -- who studied under Allender years ago and was a Godsent counselor during our time in Germany -- we will travel through the national cathedral that is Yellowstone Park and try to digest it all.

Catching Up

Sorry for my tardiness in posting. We have spent the past two days at Chris and Shannon's home and it has been a wonderful time of laughter, catching up, and the irreplaceable quality of simple time spent together.

Marley and Chris spent much of Friday downtown, first at Mars Hill and then at Chris' art school just down the street. While she was gone, our Tribe merged with our campground neighbors, Sandi and her mixed clutch of boy and girl scouts who were enoying a few days by the lake. Sandi is a brave and sturdy woman, who has had her share of hard times, but remains with a genuine smile and still-intact heart of gold herself. Five years ago, she adopted Anthony, now 10, who was rescued from a living nightmare.

I got to spend some time talking with our other neighboors, as well, Kyle and his cousin Scott. Kyle is a economic major at Pacific Lutheran University, where Shannon works. He has Keanau Reeves quiet smartness to him, but also warm and friendly. We talked for more than an hour on everything from faith to photography. He was also kind enough to give me directions to the one of the secrets of the area, a set of falls not far away where that you hike behind the falling water. I hope we can make it out there before we leave.

Marley returned from her day downtown with a wonderful glow in her eye, overflowing with excited, almost giddy, energy. The Mars Hill that she saw in person seemed to match in every way the school that lived in only knowledge from afar and her imagination.

We made our way to C&S's home that evening for one of the best meals of our trip -- Shannon grilled Salmon with chipotle berry sauce, couscous, salad and fantastic wine.

Yesterday, we hiked Rainier, making our way to the appropriately named Paradise, where most of the summit expeditions begin their long treks to the top. We climbed deep into the snow line where, after cresting a high ridgeline, Chris and the kids did some back and butt sledding. There were of course the obligatory snowball fights and much Winter-in-June merriment, as well.

Again, though, the best part of the past few days has been time with Chris & Shannon. It has been wonderful to see the home they have made. It is a comfortable place, casually elegant with refinement of style that I think Marley and I are still trying to achieve in our own home. Everything from the choice of furniture, colors, artwork and the ever-present photos that adorn every room and speak of their love for each other and their rich stable of friends and family, it all comes together in a way that embraces life and living, rather than trying to contain it.

Meanwhile, their commitment to goofiness is celebrated everywhere. Things like the longhorn skull on their living room wall, wearing, of course, a cowboy hat and foam Hook 'em Horns "fanhand," perched on the left horn. Or the small framed quote from Hannah Cheatem, age 8, above the computer I'm now typing on that reads "when you get married, you have to kiss. it's the law." But especially it's in their easiness with each other and those around them, and their almost childlike joy that has kindled for me laughter that truly made like good medicine.

Today, duty has called and Chris has had to go to work. So Marley and I are taking the kids on "an explore" -- as Pooh would say -- of the Seattle area, complete with ferryboat rides and whatever else make make its way onto our path.

Reunion

CAMP LAKEVIEW -- Graham, Washington -- The drive into Washington was the most beautiful day of traveling so far. Marley plotted a brilliant course that avoided the crazed congestion of the SeaTac I-5 corridor entirely, instead weaving through the backcountry along Route 12 hugging the base of Mt. Rainer. It was awesome.

While Idaho and most of the Oregon we saw was lunar, bare and boring, Washington has been full of life, green and breathtaking. In some ways it reminds me of Sicily, Rainer like the ever-present Mt. Etna, always a point of reference somewhere on the horizon. The neatly rowed vineyards and rolling orchards, too, reminded us of Sicily. Thankfully, the drivers are better here, though.

Best of all was reuniting with Chris and Shannon. Chris lived with us in Sicily. He was still a boy then, but very much a man now. And Shannon is the perfect spark for him, and he for her. They are a great pair and instantly bring laughter and brightness to our lives. One of the things Chris and Shannon told me when they got married two years ago was that they never want to lose sight of their goofiness. I couldn't think of a better life strategy. All the better considering he's an Army special ops guy and she's a Vassar grad. Not surprisingly, they show no sign of forgetting that goal.

Case in point: It didn't take long for Noah to warm up to them, almost instantly engaging "Aunt Chris" and "Uncle Shannon." Don't ask me how things got switched around in Noah's head but Chris and Shannon immediately embraced their new titles with absolute verve.

And so we have bedded down in the shadow of the great mountain of the West Coast at a lakeside campsite about half an hour from Chris and Shannon's house. Marley will audit a class at Mars Hill tomorrow while the kids and I go exploring. If nothing else, it will be nice just not to have to drive anywhere.

As a side note: Thanks to all of you who have written or called regarding this morning's post. It was hard to get it down in words, feeling a little like opening up a vein. I appreciate the words of response and encouragement and insight. We are indeed fortunate travelers.

Welcome to Washington!

Seems only natural that this would be the first sign we see. Fresh fruit and espresso anyone?

Sunday

UMATILLA INDIAN RESERVATION, OREGON - A year ago exactly, I was on a road trip of a entirely different kind. Shortly before Father’s Day, my father (by adoption) checked himself into a hotel, drank two bottles of gin and hanged himself.

He was a good man. But he was also an alcoholic, bi-polar and a paranoid schizophrenic. My stepmother Alice was handling things by herself and so I drove up to Brattleboro, Vt. to be of whatever help I could and grieve alongside her.

Ours was a strange relationship. He adopted me when I was three years old. And when things didn’t work out between him and my mom, he kept his commitment to me. I spent all of my childhood summers with him in a humble lakeside retreat in New Hampshire. But I never called him Dad, just Pete.

As I became an adult we lost touch, communicating only infrequently. It had been years since we talked and I thought I had lost him forever. Another disposable person in my life. But in the winter of 2001 when I was in Afghanistan covering the invasion and at the lowest point in my life, spiritually and emotionally lost, without hope and, yes, suicidal, my father somehow found me. I’ll never forget talking to him over satellite phone from Kabul, reconnecting and telling him for the first time in my life that I loved him.

Last year I was going to give him a U.S. flag that I carried on my last combat mission in Afghanistan several years later, just as I was deciding to hang up my boots as a reporter. But now he was dead.

His death was not a surprise, though. Please forgive the strangeness of what follows. Two months earlier, I had the strongest sense that I needed to tell him to get help. This kind of thing does not happen to me often. But this was clear and it was specific. I needed to tell him to get help or he would be dead in two months. Two months later, to the day, he was dead.

The thing is, I never told him. I did not trust the still small voice within myself, what I am now convinced was the voice of God. It was too clear and too specific to be otherwise. And even now the guilt wells within me.

I know his death is not my fault, specifically, but even without this strange foreshadowing I know there is more could and should have done. But his sickness overwhelmed me. This is something I have been open about with my wife and with my stepmother and they have both been good and gracious to me. Still, all this year this has lurked in the background, building like a blackwater dam inside me.

And so as I went to church on Sunday, Father’s Day, this was all rising up around me. And as we sang songs of worship celebrating a good and loving heavenly father, the dam just burst wide open. I struggled, usually unsuccessfully, to maintain composure through Peter’s teaching on perfect love, so much of it seemingly spoken just for me. But as we rose to eat the bread and drink the wine, the body and blood of a perfect atonement, I lost all control. Sitting back down I heaved in deep cleansing sobs, my wife wrapping her arms around me as a voice like an angle rose behind me, a man whose face I never saw, singing praise and worship in clear perfect notes resonating directly into my being.

The raw, vile sewage ran out of me, replaced by clear running waters. A fountain of living water.

I know after the last post I am now running the risk of being labeled a Big Cry Baby. I’m okay with that. As I’ve grown older and more honest with myself and others I’ve found the tears flow more readily. I am what I am.

After the services ended, I met with Aram, a pastor at Lookout Mountain who reminds me somehow of a Friar Tuck with a warm and generous smile, deep and searching eyes and unafraid to live on the edge, among outlaws. He listened to my story, encouraged me through my tears, not offering platitudes or empty words, but Christ-like entered into my pain and prayed for God’s help and comfort.

It was like a soothing balm after the painful cleaning of a festering wound.

There was more at Lookout Mountain that was good for the soul as well. We made new friends and got valuable insight in our pursuit of Marley’s grad school, the details of which were remarkably providential. The currents of our life are coming together in some kind of wonderful confluence that is not yet clear, but exciting. It’s hard to describe the specifics, but suffice to say that by what others might call complete coincidence the two programs we are looking at – CCU’s and Mars Hill – are directly connected in ways that we had no idea.

Our day ended breaking bread with Lawdon and Tiffany and their two wonderful girls, our fellow traffic-caught friends from the mountains who had invited us into their home for dinner. Theirs is a wonderful and generous family, real and genuine, and they instantly made their home feel like our home. Capping it all off, Lawdon offered to follow us to our campsite, dropping me and the kids off so that he could then follow Marley all the way across Denver to the airport to drop off our rental car and then bring her back to the RV. We tried to talk him out of it, but out of the pure generosity of his heart, he insisted, adding hours to his night but also richness to our fellowship.

There is a danger in deconstructing a remarkable day into its component parts. Inevitably dissection kills and I worry that I may have done that here. The thing is, Sunday wasn’t a series of singular events but a woven whole, each strand interconnecting with the next. More like notes that together make a beautiful song. It’s hard to write about songs, but I hope I have been able to convey even just a little whisper of the melody.

We begin the last leg of our journey to the West Coast today, already deep inside Oregon. We should be in Seattle by this afternoon.

I am a Dumbass

Note: I tried to post this last night, but we were too far off the grid. Sorry for the delay. I will try to post some pix later today, hopefully from Idaho.

ANTELOPE ISLAND, Utah -- Any idiot should have been able to figure this out. The physical toll from a week of nearly non-stop travel. The stress from a series of near catastrophes. A car/home in need of a thorough cleaning and general upkeep. Plus, Marley wrestling with an extra dose of hormones – and I say that matter-of-factly not disparagingly in the least. It is what it is. And me, still recovering from an emotional crucible on Sunday.

It all so obviously added up to a much needed down day. A real Day of Rest. Otherwise, you’ve got a cocktail more dangerous than any Molotov. Any idiot could have seen that. But clearly I am not just any idiot.

No, instead we pressed on Monday. We had an imaginary schedule to keep. On the surface everything was fine. But every time Marley and I tried to talk about the events of Sunday conversation trailed off into uncomfortable silence. Things were strained between us, which is so very rare these days.Trying to process a day of magnitude while traversing dizzying high-altitude passes in a 30-foot RV is probably not the best idea in the world. We were stressing. The kids were stressing. The roller coaster was hitting a gut pulling low after the soaring highs from the day before.

But we soldiered on. Until everything melted down this morning. I was wrung out, Marley was wrung out. Recriminations were flying. We were on the verge of disaster. Everything was falling apart.

And then…

And then something magical happened. Instead of descending into a death spiral, I reached out to my wonderful, amazing, crying wife and I held her. And then we prayed. At first the prayer was awkward, clumsy, unsure. But it steadily became more open, honest, naked.

We allowed ourselves to let go of our angst-bombs that were ticking, ready to explode and just surrender our brokenness to God. We acknowledged our inability and our lack of strength and asked our heavenly father to pour out His ability and His strength.

And suddenly, the dam burst. Crying in each others’ arms in the very heart of the Heart of Gold we made amends first with God, then each other, and then with our kids. We laughed, we hugged, we cried some more. Noah, returning with his sissy – who as part of God’s very gift to us – had been just outside giving us just the privacy we needed to work through all this, stepped in asking innocently, “are you alright now?” Oh yes, we were definitely all right now.

The fog had lifted. It was a new day.

And so we didn’t rush out of Utah in a blaze of dust. We lingered. We had breakfast for the first time on this trip in a restaurant. A waitress brought us coffee. We had seconds, even though it wasn’t very good. We left when we were good and ready. We laughed and smiled and finally talked as we drove along the byway.

We did not make it to Idaho, but instead Marley found the coolest of diversions. For the first time on this trip we are actually camping. The place is Antelope Island in the middle of the Great Salt Lake.

We got here by early afternoon. We hiked out over half a mile from sandy beaches across salt flats and into the water to swim in its cool brine-filled waters. Like the Dead Sea, the salt is so thick here that you can literally float on top of the water if lie flat on your back. We cooked steaks over an open fire as the sun set behind distant mountains dancing red across the water. A pair of coyotes stalked rabbits a few hundred feet away, eventually disappearing in the scrub brush. As we finished our meal, I think they were beginning their own, howling – I swear -- in long victorious cries as the crescent moon peeked out over a nearby ridgeline.

I like to think that I will never again put an itinerary before the needs of my wife or kids or even myself. But if I slip, which knowing me I probably will, I hope that at the very least I can remember this day and how it so quickly began anew, stripped down and naked before a loving God, broken and healed at the same time.