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.