BAINBRIDGE ISLAND, WA – The last time I moved to an island I got a good piece of advice from a friend of mine. The island in question was Sicily and the advice went something like this:
“Throw away your daily to-do lists. If you get one thing done around here – find something you need at a store, pay a bill, get anywhere, do anything – consider it a successful day.”
I would learn that calling Sicily a little chaotic is like saying New York City is a little big, or the ocean a little wet, or Mini Me a little little. So anyway, as it turned out, it was good advice. Call it a twist on carpe diem – seize the day, but don’t kill yourself trying because you’re probably not going to get too much done anyway. After all, anything really worth doing can probably wait until tomorrow regardless. Or so it seemed to many.
And so, as we reenter Island Living, I am reminded of my friend’s words. But in an entirely different context. I have already learned that to say there is a lot to do here is like saying there is a lot of fish in the sea (many of which are caught everyday and served fresh at local restaurants or sold at local markets) or that there are a lot of beers and wines in a bar (many of which are made locally and are really tasty and if you don’t watch yourself you could get really fat trying them all out) or that there are a lot of trees in a forest (and hiking trails and breath-taking vistas overlooking sailboat-dotted bays and kayak-running rivers and, oh look, I bet that restaurant has fresh fish and some good micro brews…)
So, yeah, there’s a lot to do here. Which is good because we’ve promised ourselves something. And so we come to the point of all this.
We’ve promised ourselves – and the kids -- that we will try to do something new at least once a week. The truth is we probably could do something new every day. But that would be ambitious, plus there’s that whole real life thing of having to go to school and earn a living and stuff.
So, we exchange carpe diem for seize the week. We’re going to try and make Saturdays our adventure day, the day generally reserved for going out and exploring this New World we find ourselves in.
Today was our first one. It was simple, but rich. Marley started before the rest of us. She is training for a 60-mile hike (over three days) to raise money to fight breast cancer (more about that in future posts, I’m sure), so she was out of the house early hiking the seven miles from our house on the north end of the island down into the village of Winslow which serves as the “downtown” of Bainbridge Island. The kids and I joined her for breakfast at the local diner, a Bainbridge icon dubbed the Streamliner.
From there, and here’s where the new part comes in, we went to the Farmers’ Market, which is an every-Saturday-thing here through the warm months. More than just locally-grown produce, the market is artisan-and-yummy stuff free-for-all. Not that any of it is actually free, of course. I spent a good 20 minutes talking to Mike and his wife Beth and their son Ellis. They own one of the two wineries on the island that both grow their own grapes and press them here. Mike was a self-described “computer-geek programmer” until a few years ago when he decided to follow his life’s dream and buy a patch of earth here and become winemaker.
I’ve always wanted to know more about winemaking and within our short conversation had volunteered to come help out at their farm.
Meanwhile, Marley and the kids were busy buying some marigolds for planting. As we joined back up, we picked out some strawberry and tomato plants as well. Once we arrived back home, we found some old planting pots that had been thoughtfully left behind by the previous tenants and all got our hands good and dirty settling everything into their new homes.
We debated the best places to put them and decided that we were very smart to put the plants in pots because the sun is limited in our little patch in the forest and we’re not quite sure yet where they’ll be able to soak the most light. Until you know where you’re going to put down roots, it’s good to keep things mobile.
It was also good to have my hands in soil again. It made me miss our garden in Ohio, but also seeded that wonderful hopeful feeling that only comes from planting living things in good earth. I cannot guarantee that we will enjoy delicious strawberries or tomatoes from our new little mini garden, or that the flowers will bloom any longer than today, but I know that I can fertilize them every few weeks and make sure they get enough water, or not too much water, and fight off the weeds as best I can and if I do all those things chances are pretty good.
Of course I know they could all be dead in a week, too. But, still, it is a good kind of hope that comes from getting dirt deep under my fingernails. It capped off a week that saw a return of hope for us. The joy of hope. The joy trust. Indeed, it was good week.
While the dust is far from settled, we are settling. The ache of departure is slowly being replaced with the first tentative beats of whatever new rhythm is unfolding for us here.
So there you have it. There – to the Bainbridge Island Farmers’ Market – and back again. Next time, I’ll try and take some pictures.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
One Week
BAINBRIDGE ISLAND – Has it only been a week? It seems like we’ve been here much longer.
I’m sitting alone in our living room. Drinking a glass a wine. We have a fireplace, but I can’t see it because of the boxes. I’m not crying, but the truth is a feel pretty damned depressed.
I don’t really feel much like writing, but Marley said it might be therapeutic.
Overall, we’re doing pretty well I suppose. We arrived late on Friday night, worn out but none the worse for wear. Marley and I had our first fight of the trip trying to find the ferry docks after being welcomed into Seattle with hellish rush-hours traffic. It was a long day of driving, with emotional – and physical – highs and lows as we made our way over the Snohomish Pass and down into the Puget Sound.
Finally though the traffic, we were coming to what we figured was the last 40 minutes of our trip and the most, well, epic-like – loading our car aboard the Seattle-to-Bainbridge Ferry where we would stand on the bow of the great ship and pose with windswept hair as Indiana Jones…um, make that Ohio Andersons…soundtrack music played in the background.
Instead, things were falling apart. The fight was stupid. I was just being oversensitive and bitchy. And tired. But you could hardly call it a fight. We’re much better at fighting these days. It was over as soon as it started really, but it was a crappy way to enter into the folds of our new home. We regrouped quickly, though, and made our peace. Which was good because the next three hours would have really sucked otherwise.
The ferry we had hoped to get on had left just a few minutes before we arrived, which meant we’d have to wait another hour before we could make the final leg of our journey. Except, as it turned out, we would wait that hour only to drive through the ferry-boarding queue and get stopped one car shy of making the next ferry. That is to say, the second car in front of us was the last one to make it on, making us second in line now for the next ferry. One last try as saying this simply: we were going to have wait yet another hour.
Which was fine. The kids took it stride. Noah and I went and looked at the fireboat docked nearby. A massive containership plowed by on its way out of the seaport off to ports unknown, riding high with thousands of steel boxes stacked like so many blocks of multicolored Legos. Except in the process the warm wonderful sunny day gave way to heavy clouds and wind and cold. By the time we got on board the ferry it was down right blustery.
We made our way topside, from the belly of the boat, where the cars and trucks are corralled in long lines, up onto the passenger decks where commuters sit and mingle or huddle over laptops or read or doze listening to Ipods. Outside a few people were braving the cold winds feeding a flock of seagulls that were sailing along side us, swooping and diving in for the tossed morsels.
We were soon among them. And in the process we managed to get this picture taken – a record of the end of our long trip and the beginning of our new adventure here in Seattle.
By the time we made it to our house the light was dwindling, but the kids were still wildly enthusiastic to explore their new home. I had hoped for an early afternoon arrival where we would have plenty of time to get settled for our first night, but instead we unpacked the bear necessities and drove into town to find something to eat. By the time we made it back and crawled into bed it was well past 11pm. It wasn’t the kind of “home coming” I had hoped for, but it was good to finally be here.
Like that last day of traveling, the week since has had its ups and downs. We’ve been slowly getting unpacked and settled. Chris and Shannon came to visit on Saturday, bringing food and flowers and beer. We couldn’t have hoped for a better welcome wagon.
But aside from the one of the boys who live down the road, we’ve yet to meet any of our neighbors. Indeed, it has felt remarkably lonely. Our “tree house” as we call it, nestled in among the 100-foot evergreens completely masking what neighbors we do have, only heightens that sense of alone-ness.
The house itself – while very “us” in that it’s funky and rustic and eclectic and bit rough around the edges – doesn’t get much sun, even when its sunny, surrounded as it is by aforementioned tall trees.
I find myself missing our house. The way the sunlight pours into our bedroom in the morning and cascades into the living room during the day. As I unpack, I find myself missing our kitchen and all the storage. I miss our dishwasher, because the one here sucks. I miss the attic and the shed and all the other places for the all the crap I don’t know what do with yet. I miss "my spot" up on the breakfast bar where so many wonderful conversations have been had.
I miss the hourly bells of the big church down the road and the seemly random songs they play at seemly random points throughout the day. I miss the general store-like market and gas station where I can be there and back again – with a bottle of half-and-half first thing in the morning or steaming hot pizza at night or whatever else in between – in less than five minutes flat. I miss the little red brick K-12 schoolhouse next door. I miss the open farm roads and the new corn and soy bean crops that are just now, I can picture clearly, transforming the brown Ohio landscape into wide seas of green.
More than anything, though, I just miss our neighbors – our friends and our family. I miss the herd of kids that were constantly running through our house and building forts out back and riding bikes out front and creating wonderful chaos everywhere. God, I miss the kids. And their parents. And our kids’ grandparents. And aunts. And…everyone.
Great, now I’m crying again.
I just didn’t think it was going to be this hard. And as I reread what I just wrote I know I sound like an unthankful schmuck, because it’s true I have so much to be thankful for here and dishwashers and attics don’t matter at all. And I love tall trees. I guess all I’m saying is that it feels like this is the part where we should be totally enthralled with all the new coolness of everything we’re doing, and to be sure there has been some of that, a lot of that really, but a lot of the time I just find myself being stuck in the sadness.
Marley wrote as much to one of our friends back in Ohio today. Even as I write these words, Diana’s response drops into our inbox, her words both understanding and a breath of hope…
I imagine the loneliness and isolation are at the unbearable stage at this point. It will take some time, but you will ease into a new routine…
…and (without getting into the details) they make me laugh, just when I needed a boost. And so it has been with this blog -- comforting and encouraging while also a certain amount of sharing of a heavy load. Thank you all for coming on this journey with us and for your many comments, calls and emails along the way. You will never know how much they’ve meant to us.
I’m not sure what happens from here, as far as the blog goes. I have found that when we are traveling there is a natural rhythm that emerges, not unlike when I was a reporter on the road, that makes writing very easy. That rhythm is harder to hold onto when “real life” settles in.
Be that as it may, I’d like to try and keep at this. As usual, Marley’s right: if nothing else, it is cathartic for me. “There and back again” has so many more possibilities as a title than what I first imagined. The truth is, I’m not sure where “there” is anymore – that is, where we’re going, exactly.
But wherever “there” ends up, I’d like to keep bringing it back here to share with you, the people who matter most to us.
I’m sitting alone in our living room. Drinking a glass a wine. We have a fireplace, but I can’t see it because of the boxes. I’m not crying, but the truth is a feel pretty damned depressed.
I don’t really feel much like writing, but Marley said it might be therapeutic.
Overall, we’re doing pretty well I suppose. We arrived late on Friday night, worn out but none the worse for wear. Marley and I had our first fight of the trip trying to find the ferry docks after being welcomed into Seattle with hellish rush-hours traffic. It was a long day of driving, with emotional – and physical – highs and lows as we made our way over the Snohomish Pass and down into the Puget Sound.
Finally though the traffic, we were coming to what we figured was the last 40 minutes of our trip and the most, well, epic-like – loading our car aboard the Seattle-to-Bainbridge Ferry where we would stand on the bow of the great ship and pose with windswept hair as Indiana Jones…um, make that Ohio Andersons…soundtrack music played in the background.
Instead, things were falling apart. The fight was stupid. I was just being oversensitive and bitchy. And tired. But you could hardly call it a fight. We’re much better at fighting these days. It was over as soon as it started really, but it was a crappy way to enter into the folds of our new home. We regrouped quickly, though, and made our peace. Which was good because the next three hours would have really sucked otherwise.
The ferry we had hoped to get on had left just a few minutes before we arrived, which meant we’d have to wait another hour before we could make the final leg of our journey. Except, as it turned out, we would wait that hour only to drive through the ferry-boarding queue and get stopped one car shy of making the next ferry. That is to say, the second car in front of us was the last one to make it on, making us second in line now for the next ferry. One last try as saying this simply: we were going to have wait yet another hour.
Which was fine. The kids took it stride. Noah and I went and looked at the fireboat docked nearby. A massive containership plowed by on its way out of the seaport off to ports unknown, riding high with thousands of steel boxes stacked like so many blocks of multicolored Legos. Except in the process the warm wonderful sunny day gave way to heavy clouds and wind and cold. By the time we got on board the ferry it was down right blustery.
We made our way topside, from the belly of the boat, where the cars and trucks are corralled in long lines, up onto the passenger decks where commuters sit and mingle or huddle over laptops or read or doze listening to Ipods. Outside a few people were braving the cold winds feeding a flock of seagulls that were sailing along side us, swooping and diving in for the tossed morsels.
We were soon among them. And in the process we managed to get this picture taken – a record of the end of our long trip and the beginning of our new adventure here in Seattle.
By the time we made it to our house the light was dwindling, but the kids were still wildly enthusiastic to explore their new home. I had hoped for an early afternoon arrival where we would have plenty of time to get settled for our first night, but instead we unpacked the bear necessities and drove into town to find something to eat. By the time we made it back and crawled into bed it was well past 11pm. It wasn’t the kind of “home coming” I had hoped for, but it was good to finally be here.
Like that last day of traveling, the week since has had its ups and downs. We’ve been slowly getting unpacked and settled. Chris and Shannon came to visit on Saturday, bringing food and flowers and beer. We couldn’t have hoped for a better welcome wagon.
But aside from the one of the boys who live down the road, we’ve yet to meet any of our neighbors. Indeed, it has felt remarkably lonely. Our “tree house” as we call it, nestled in among the 100-foot evergreens completely masking what neighbors we do have, only heightens that sense of alone-ness.
The house itself – while very “us” in that it’s funky and rustic and eclectic and bit rough around the edges – doesn’t get much sun, even when its sunny, surrounded as it is by aforementioned tall trees.
I find myself missing our house. The way the sunlight pours into our bedroom in the morning and cascades into the living room during the day. As I unpack, I find myself missing our kitchen and all the storage. I miss our dishwasher, because the one here sucks. I miss the attic and the shed and all the other places for the all the crap I don’t know what do with yet. I miss "my spot" up on the breakfast bar where so many wonderful conversations have been had.
I miss the hourly bells of the big church down the road and the seemly random songs they play at seemly random points throughout the day. I miss the general store-like market and gas station where I can be there and back again – with a bottle of half-and-half first thing in the morning or steaming hot pizza at night or whatever else in between – in less than five minutes flat. I miss the little red brick K-12 schoolhouse next door. I miss the open farm roads and the new corn and soy bean crops that are just now, I can picture clearly, transforming the brown Ohio landscape into wide seas of green.
More than anything, though, I just miss our neighbors – our friends and our family. I miss the herd of kids that were constantly running through our house and building forts out back and riding bikes out front and creating wonderful chaos everywhere. God, I miss the kids. And their parents. And our kids’ grandparents. And aunts. And…everyone.
Great, now I’m crying again.
I just didn’t think it was going to be this hard. And as I reread what I just wrote I know I sound like an unthankful schmuck, because it’s true I have so much to be thankful for here and dishwashers and attics don’t matter at all. And I love tall trees. I guess all I’m saying is that it feels like this is the part where we should be totally enthralled with all the new coolness of everything we’re doing, and to be sure there has been some of that, a lot of that really, but a lot of the time I just find myself being stuck in the sadness.
Marley wrote as much to one of our friends back in Ohio today. Even as I write these words, Diana’s response drops into our inbox, her words both understanding and a breath of hope…
I imagine the loneliness and isolation are at the unbearable stage at this point. It will take some time, but you will ease into a new routine…
…and (without getting into the details) they make me laugh, just when I needed a boost. And so it has been with this blog -- comforting and encouraging while also a certain amount of sharing of a heavy load. Thank you all for coming on this journey with us and for your many comments, calls and emails along the way. You will never know how much they’ve meant to us.
I’m not sure what happens from here, as far as the blog goes. I have found that when we are traveling there is a natural rhythm that emerges, not unlike when I was a reporter on the road, that makes writing very easy. That rhythm is harder to hold onto when “real life” settles in.
Be that as it may, I’d like to try and keep at this. As usual, Marley’s right: if nothing else, it is cathartic for me. “There and back again” has so many more possibilities as a title than what I first imagined. The truth is, I’m not sure where “there” is anymore – that is, where we’re going, exactly.
But wherever “there” ends up, I’d like to keep bringing it back here to share with you, the people who matter most to us.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Crossing the Great Divide
SOMEWHERE IN IDAHO – Last year’s trip was a lot of fun. This time around, not so much. Last year, the journey truly was every bit as enjoyable as the individual destinations. This time, it has seemed more like work.
Part of this has been the difference between traveling in an RV versus a car. You can’t help but feel connected with the places you pass in an RV. You see it better from the huge big screen TV that is the windshield, a wider and much higher viewpoint than granted by mere cars.
There is also the community of camping, such as it is in the RV universe. You meet your neighbors and conversation seems so much easier than what might come in fleeting moments in and out of hotel chambers. And of course, no lugging luggage in and out of the nightly pitstops.
To be sure, driving the RV was exhausting. But even that lent itself to the adventure. Epics should be hard.
All these things are true, but I don’t think they are the real TRUTH of why I have been enjoying this trip so much less. This trip is hard because of what and who are leaving behind.
But again, as with most things worthwhile, there should be some hardship, some pain.
This of course, is the beginning of a much larger epic for us. But I guess what this trip has felt like is that strange twilight that separates the end of night and the dawn of a new day. The sun isn’t quite up yet, but the light is gathering.
It is a limbo between yesterday and tomorrow where today doesn’t quite seem to exist, a place where home is both what is behind and what it before. Usually, Marley and I spend most of our time in travel deep in conversation. Early on in this trip, though, we acknowledged that wasn’t happening. We saw our need to grieve our sense of loss in leaving Ohio quietly, together but alone.
Only the day before, we would learn last night during dinner, more than a foot of snow had fallen on these roads. Indeed, we had entered the snowline repeatedly throughout the day. And although the skies were windy and cold with scattered clouds, the roads were clear and the sun shined brightly. It was the kind of day that feels not quite like winter, but not quite like spring, either.
But something significant began to change yesterday as we made our way though the deep valleys and high mountain passes of Montana. At some point in the afternoon, I saw a brief flash of roadside sign that said:
You are now crossing the Continental Divide
Elevation: 6963 feet
It is the place from which all water, instead of moving east back towards the Atlantic, begins a journey that will end eventually in the Pacific. It is, as I think it put it last year, the tipping point. Without even thinking about it I called Marley’s brother Chris to announce we were on the downhill slope of our journey.
And then something important happened. Marley and I began to talk. We talked about what we had learned in our three years in New Knoxville and how God had worked and moved in our lives in ways that were so unexpected. And as we made our way into Missoula, where we would bed down for the night, we began exploring what this new chapter of our lives might look like. We asked ourselves what our prayer should be for this season we will eventually call our years at Mars Hill.
Rather than build a list of demands that we might present before God, we searched for how our hearts might be changed according to his will, to be open to the unexpected and maybe even the unwanted. We found ourselves dwelling on the word “effective” – the ways that we might be more effective parents, spouses, students, and servants – but ultimately, I think, how we can most effectively love God, ourselves and those around us.
For me, I think that means learning how to be a better doer, really embracing the idea that without action, without work, my faith is dead. I want to find ways where I can meaningfully live out the idea that Christ really does have no hand but our hands.
Just before we left Ohio, I met a guy that has given me a glimpse of what that looks like. David and I share some common threads in our respective stories. We’re both about the same age, both Army veterans, both parents of the most beautiful children ever born and both married to the loves our lives.
But where I have long yearned to find a way to help others in way that was practical and meaningful, Dave just went and out did it. Indeed, my vision has always been volunteering in a place where hungry people could get fed. So was David’s. And for awhile he traveled long hours to work in missions for the homeless far from his home in Sidney, Ohio.
Then he found out there were homeless in Sidney, but no missions to help feed them. So he just started his own ministry. You can read about it here and check out his personal blog here. What I admire about David is that he just did it. He didn’t wring his hands or bitch about what wasn’t, he just saw a need and filled it. Now several churches in Sidney have partnered with him and real people in real need are finding some help and some compassion during a time in their lives when both have been in short supply.
This is a video that shows the work that he and his friends do every Saturday.
Dave’s motivation, as best I can tell, is not to win cool points with God. He’s not trying to do good deeds so that he can build a line of credit in his cosmic bank account.
He is simply, clearly, loving because he has been loved. He is working out his faith, that is to say, he is giving it a work out. In short, he’s the kind of guy I want to be more like.
He's one of the many reasons it is so hard to leave home. Meanwhile, however, we're happy to report we should be arriving home sometime this evening. It's been a hard trip, but a good one.
Part of this has been the difference between traveling in an RV versus a car. You can’t help but feel connected with the places you pass in an RV. You see it better from the huge big screen TV that is the windshield, a wider and much higher viewpoint than granted by mere cars.
There is also the community of camping, such as it is in the RV universe. You meet your neighbors and conversation seems so much easier than what might come in fleeting moments in and out of hotel chambers. And of course, no lugging luggage in and out of the nightly pitstops.
To be sure, driving the RV was exhausting. But even that lent itself to the adventure. Epics should be hard.
All these things are true, but I don’t think they are the real TRUTH of why I have been enjoying this trip so much less. This trip is hard because of what and who are leaving behind.
But again, as with most things worthwhile, there should be some hardship, some pain.
This of course, is the beginning of a much larger epic for us. But I guess what this trip has felt like is that strange twilight that separates the end of night and the dawn of a new day. The sun isn’t quite up yet, but the light is gathering.
It is a limbo between yesterday and tomorrow where today doesn’t quite seem to exist, a place where home is both what is behind and what it before. Usually, Marley and I spend most of our time in travel deep in conversation. Early on in this trip, though, we acknowledged that wasn’t happening. We saw our need to grieve our sense of loss in leaving Ohio quietly, together but alone.
Only the day before, we would learn last night during dinner, more than a foot of snow had fallen on these roads. Indeed, we had entered the snowline repeatedly throughout the day. And although the skies were windy and cold with scattered clouds, the roads were clear and the sun shined brightly. It was the kind of day that feels not quite like winter, but not quite like spring, either.
But something significant began to change yesterday as we made our way though the deep valleys and high mountain passes of Montana. At some point in the afternoon, I saw a brief flash of roadside sign that said:
You are now crossing the Continental Divide
Elevation: 6963 feet
It is the place from which all water, instead of moving east back towards the Atlantic, begins a journey that will end eventually in the Pacific. It is, as I think it put it last year, the tipping point. Without even thinking about it I called Marley’s brother Chris to announce we were on the downhill slope of our journey.
And then something important happened. Marley and I began to talk. We talked about what we had learned in our three years in New Knoxville and how God had worked and moved in our lives in ways that were so unexpected. And as we made our way into Missoula, where we would bed down for the night, we began exploring what this new chapter of our lives might look like. We asked ourselves what our prayer should be for this season we will eventually call our years at Mars Hill.
Rather than build a list of demands that we might present before God, we searched for how our hearts might be changed according to his will, to be open to the unexpected and maybe even the unwanted. We found ourselves dwelling on the word “effective” – the ways that we might be more effective parents, spouses, students, and servants – but ultimately, I think, how we can most effectively love God, ourselves and those around us.
For me, I think that means learning how to be a better doer, really embracing the idea that without action, without work, my faith is dead. I want to find ways where I can meaningfully live out the idea that Christ really does have no hand but our hands.
Just before we left Ohio, I met a guy that has given me a glimpse of what that looks like. David and I share some common threads in our respective stories. We’re both about the same age, both Army veterans, both parents of the most beautiful children ever born and both married to the loves our lives.
But where I have long yearned to find a way to help others in way that was practical and meaningful, Dave just went and out did it. Indeed, my vision has always been volunteering in a place where hungry people could get fed. So was David’s. And for awhile he traveled long hours to work in missions for the homeless far from his home in Sidney, Ohio.
Then he found out there were homeless in Sidney, but no missions to help feed them. So he just started his own ministry. You can read about it here and check out his personal blog here. What I admire about David is that he just did it. He didn’t wring his hands or bitch about what wasn’t, he just saw a need and filled it. Now several churches in Sidney have partnered with him and real people in real need are finding some help and some compassion during a time in their lives when both have been in short supply.
This is a video that shows the work that he and his friends do every Saturday.
Dave’s motivation, as best I can tell, is not to win cool points with God. He’s not trying to do good deeds so that he can build a line of credit in his cosmic bank account.
He is simply, clearly, loving because he has been loved. He is working out his faith, that is to say, he is giving it a work out. In short, he’s the kind of guy I want to be more like.
He's one of the many reasons it is so hard to leave home. Meanwhile, however, we're happy to report we should be arriving home sometime this evening. It's been a hard trip, but a good one.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
On the fly
SOMEWHERE ON I-90, MONTANA – So far, so good. I write this from the passenger seat while Marley drives through the Montana badlands.
We’re feeling a bit beat up, though. I’m still nursing two good-sized road-rashes I got from a spill I took on the alpine slide in Denver. My ego was bruised more than my body, but my body still hurts.
Marley slept funky last night and has a terrible kink in her neck. It’s the kind of kink that makes it painful to even turn around, so hopefully having keeping her eyes on the road rather than smacking the kids around in back will help out.
Meanwhile, Noah has stopped bleeding. His sister schwacked him with a golf club last night on the hotel’s putting green. Gashed a pretty good hole in his forehead. Thought we might have to get stitches, but we managed to get things under control on our own. (Props to the Holiday Inn in Sheridan, Wyoming for sporting the first putting green we’ve seen on this trip, or any trip for that matter, inside the hotel, and of course for putting up with a screaming, bleeding four-year-old with grace, an ice pack and bandaids.)
Amelia seems to have gotten through the worst of the swimmers ear fever, but the twice daily doses of foul-tasting antibiotics remain a challenge. Still, despite it all, everyone seems to be doing pretty well. Plus, we haven’t lost any cats yet. Or the transmission.
I’ll close this on-the-fly posting with the story on-the-elevator encounter I had this morning. I was going down to the car to begin the packing process and stepped onto the elevator with a couple and their young daughter. The wife immediately took notice of my Mars Hill Graduate School sweatshirt and said “Mars Hill Graduate School!”
Long story short, she’d heard of our little seminary in Seattle. They’re a military couple. He’s an Army physician and they’re in the middle of their own cross-country move, relocating from Fort Bragg, N.C. to…um, yeah…about 20 minutes down the road from where we’ll be living.
Their pastor from back in Bragg is helping them move. We all enjoyed a long cup of coffee together talking about faith and military mental health issues – something Marley and I think we may very well get into after Mars Hill. It was, in short, a moment.
Anyway, they gave me a book they’re excited about, their contact info and a promise we’ll all get together once the dust settles from our respective moves.
We’re feeling a bit beat up, though. I’m still nursing two good-sized road-rashes I got from a spill I took on the alpine slide in Denver. My ego was bruised more than my body, but my body still hurts.
Marley slept funky last night and has a terrible kink in her neck. It’s the kind of kink that makes it painful to even turn around, so hopefully having keeping her eyes on the road rather than smacking the kids around in back will help out.
Meanwhile, Noah has stopped bleeding. His sister schwacked him with a golf club last night on the hotel’s putting green. Gashed a pretty good hole in his forehead. Thought we might have to get stitches, but we managed to get things under control on our own. (Props to the Holiday Inn in Sheridan, Wyoming for sporting the first putting green we’ve seen on this trip, or any trip for that matter, inside the hotel, and of course for putting up with a screaming, bleeding four-year-old with grace, an ice pack and bandaids.)
Amelia seems to have gotten through the worst of the swimmers ear fever, but the twice daily doses of foul-tasting antibiotics remain a challenge. Still, despite it all, everyone seems to be doing pretty well. Plus, we haven’t lost any cats yet. Or the transmission.
I’ll close this on-the-fly posting with the story on-the-elevator encounter I had this morning. I was going down to the car to begin the packing process and stepped onto the elevator with a couple and their young daughter. The wife immediately took notice of my Mars Hill Graduate School sweatshirt and said “Mars Hill Graduate School!”
Long story short, she’d heard of our little seminary in Seattle. They’re a military couple. He’s an Army physician and they’re in the middle of their own cross-country move, relocating from Fort Bragg, N.C. to…um, yeah…about 20 minutes down the road from where we’ll be living.
Their pastor from back in Bragg is helping them move. We all enjoyed a long cup of coffee together talking about faith and military mental health issues – something Marley and I think we may very well get into after Mars Hill. It was, in short, a moment.
Anyway, they gave me a book they’re excited about, their contact info and a promise we’ll all get together once the dust settles from our respective moves.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Denver coming and going
DENVER – On our way into Denver on Sunday we had a wonderful treat. There was heavy rain, there was hail, there was wind and there was Carmen.
Carmen is one of my mother's oldest friends. As old, dear friends sometimes do, they had fallen out of touch for awhile and only within the past few weeks have they rekindled their friendship. I have not seen her since I was teenager.
And yet as we parked side-by-side under the tin roof protection of an old gas station pitstop, with the weather thundering around us, Carmen embraced us as if we were her own kids.
There were stories, there were pictures, there was video. It was like a mini family reunion in the rain. Carmen was on her way out of Denver where she lives now to visit her father in Kansas and we were trying to get Denver in time for Church, so our time was brief, but it was ever so sweet.
My mom and Carmen met in nursing school in Kansas when the two were fresh out of high school. They were roommates and best friends.
I asked her to tell me a story about my mom that I probably haven’t ever heard before. Carmen didn’t miss a beat, thinking only a few brief moments, then smiling and said, “Okay, here’s one.”
One day, when they were still in nursing school, their money and food had completely run out. They were starving. This wasn’t at all uncommon for them, she said.
“Your mom was 18 or maybe 19 at the time, and she said come on, we’re going to go find some food,” said Carmen with a gleam in her eyes. So the pair hiked down to the nearest Dairy Queen.
“We have no money,” Carmen says my mom announced to the manager. “But we’ll do dishes for you if you’ll feed us.”
She was right I had never heard that story, but it didn’t surprise me. That sounds like something my mom, ever bold and ever practical, would do. Of course it didn’t work, but it was worth the try. And somehow they made it through nursing school together anyway.
Thank you Carmen for making our visit -- too short, but filled full of substance anyway -- happen as our paths crossed in the storm.
On Monday, I had lunch with a wonderful friend of a friend who goes to Peter's church. Duncan and I met when we were traveling through Denver last year. Our meeting was too short then, but we made up for that this time around with a lunch-hour that turned into well over two hours of conversation. Thank you Jeff for introducing us from a far.
Now, we’ve stayed in Denver a day longer than we intended. Amelia has swimmer’s ear that has gone from bad to worse, so we needed get her to a doctor. And a little concerned about the hesitation in the shifting of our little green van, we wanted to get our vehicle checked out as well.
Amelia got the antibiotics she needed. Unfortunately, the fix will not be so simple for the Odyssey. The dealership says we need a new transmission and they’d be happy to put in for us for about $3600. Ouch. We’ve been told by a few local mechanics, though, that we can probably limp our way into Washington.
Our friend Scott, the retired Army chaplain in Montana that we visited on our trip last year, knows what we’re going through. When he moved his family from Germany to Montana a few years ago, he stopped in Lousiana to pick up his six horses, three dogs and about half a dozen cats. And we thought we were crazy!
As we were weighing our options yesterday he offered the best encouragement…
“If you try to limp it along and you do breakdown, just think of the adventures you might have :-),” he wrote in an email.
It was just the reality check we needed. No need to get immobilized in what-ifs. Time to embrace the adventure. We’re leaving in just a bit. For those of you who are praying types we’d appreciate any good words on our behalf.
Carmen is one of my mother's oldest friends. As old, dear friends sometimes do, they had fallen out of touch for awhile and only within the past few weeks have they rekindled their friendship. I have not seen her since I was teenager.
And yet as we parked side-by-side under the tin roof protection of an old gas station pitstop, with the weather thundering around us, Carmen embraced us as if we were her own kids.
There were stories, there were pictures, there was video. It was like a mini family reunion in the rain. Carmen was on her way out of Denver where she lives now to visit her father in Kansas and we were trying to get Denver in time for Church, so our time was brief, but it was ever so sweet.
My mom and Carmen met in nursing school in Kansas when the two were fresh out of high school. They were roommates and best friends.
I asked her to tell me a story about my mom that I probably haven’t ever heard before. Carmen didn’t miss a beat, thinking only a few brief moments, then smiling and said, “Okay, here’s one.”
One day, when they were still in nursing school, their money and food had completely run out. They were starving. This wasn’t at all uncommon for them, she said.
“Your mom was 18 or maybe 19 at the time, and she said come on, we’re going to go find some food,” said Carmen with a gleam in her eyes. So the pair hiked down to the nearest Dairy Queen.
“We have no money,” Carmen says my mom announced to the manager. “But we’ll do dishes for you if you’ll feed us.”
She was right I had never heard that story, but it didn’t surprise me. That sounds like something my mom, ever bold and ever practical, would do. Of course it didn’t work, but it was worth the try. And somehow they made it through nursing school together anyway.
Thank you Carmen for making our visit -- too short, but filled full of substance anyway -- happen as our paths crossed in the storm.
On Monday, I had lunch with a wonderful friend of a friend who goes to Peter's church. Duncan and I met when we were traveling through Denver last year. Our meeting was too short then, but we made up for that this time around with a lunch-hour that turned into well over two hours of conversation. Thank you Jeff for introducing us from a far.
Now, we’ve stayed in Denver a day longer than we intended. Amelia has swimmer’s ear that has gone from bad to worse, so we needed get her to a doctor. And a little concerned about the hesitation in the shifting of our little green van, we wanted to get our vehicle checked out as well.
Amelia got the antibiotics she needed. Unfortunately, the fix will not be so simple for the Odyssey. The dealership says we need a new transmission and they’d be happy to put in for us for about $3600. Ouch. We’ve been told by a few local mechanics, though, that we can probably limp our way into Washington.
Our friend Scott, the retired Army chaplain in Montana that we visited on our trip last year, knows what we’re going through. When he moved his family from Germany to Montana a few years ago, he stopped in Lousiana to pick up his six horses, three dogs and about half a dozen cats. And we thought we were crazy!
As we were weighing our options yesterday he offered the best encouragement…
“If you try to limp it along and you do breakdown, just think of the adventures you might have :-),” he wrote in an email.
It was just the reality check we needed. No need to get immobilized in what-ifs. Time to embrace the adventure. We’re leaving in just a bit. For those of you who are praying types we’d appreciate any good words on our behalf.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
On Neighbors and Not Being Dead
DENVER – My mom captured pretty concisely the pain I know Marley and I have been feeling since our departure.
“It feels like someone has died,” she said, “it that’s kind of deep ache.” She added, after a short pause and a teary chuckle, “but you’re not really dead, so that’s good.
I couldn’t have said it better. It’s good – yes, in that nobody has died, but also in the larger sense that we are going down a path that has been prepared for us.
But it is so very painful.
I have moved more times than I can count at this point. Dozens of times. In the past six years alone, we have moved six times. I keep saying we should be better at it by now.
But this, by far, has been the very hardest move ever. But not because we’re still hopelessly disorganized, which we are, but because of who we are leaving behind. All those who’s make a what – a what that some might call community.
On the first morning of this trip I was up early writing in the small hotel lobby while Marley and the kids slept. A TV played in the corner. The big story of the day was about a 73-year-old man named Angel Torres who was hit by a car crossing a street in Hartford. The video showed him writhing in pain as cars drive around him. A scooter circles, eventually a crowd gathers but no one helps. Finally the police show up.
You can watch it here, but fair warning: it is distressing.
Anyway, one of the talking heads said this is what our country is becoming. “Everyone is turning inward,” she observed. “We are losing our sense of community.”
That may be true for much of the larger world, but one of the many good things I am taking with me from New Knoxville, is that it doesn’t have to be true everywhere. I have been thinking about that for days now.
And then we sat down in a beautiful cathedral in downtown Denver shortly after arriving on Sunday. And we inhaled the breath of fresh air that we desperately needed.
Peter Hiett has been one of our favorite teachers for several years. I have yet to listen to one of his sermons and not be moved and challenged and inspired.
And so it was not a complete surprise when the sermon began with the music of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. And then the video of Mr. Torres emerged on the big screen TV up front as the music continued in the background. It was a jarring and disconcerting juxtaposition.
And then Peter began his teaching on the Good Samaritan.
The story, recorded by Luke, goes like this:
On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. "Teacher," he asked, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?"
"What is written in the Law?" he replied. "How do you read it?"
He answered: " 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind'; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'"
"You have answered correctly," Jesus replied. "Do this and you will live."
But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"
In reply Jesus said: "A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers.
They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.
But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. 'Look after him,' he said, 'and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.'
"Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?"
The expert in the law replied, "The one who had mercy on him." Jesus told him, "Go and do likewise."
So, we’ve got a “lawyer looking for loopholes,” Peter says, asking who is my neighbor? Who, exactly, must I love to be saved? It was the wrong question and Jesus doesn’t even bother to answer. He doesn’t even acknowledge it.
Instead, he tells a story.
Peter noted that two things typically defined people in these days – how they dressed and how they talked. And Jesus describes this person laying naked and unconscious on the side of the road as basically a blank slate. It would have been impossible to know which group he belonged – Jew or Gentile, Roman or slave, friend or enemy – no way to tell.
And so then we have a leader of the religious establishment, a member of the upper class who was probably mounted and could carry the man to help, opting to do nothing.
And then along comes the Levite, of the tribe of Jews specifically tasked with serving the community. He couldn’t carry the man, but he could have at least rendered first aid. But he too walks on by.
Finally, the Samaritan comes along. During these times Samaritans were among the most reviled among the Jewish community. They were considered evil heretics and Jews prayed for their demise. Anyone hearing this story in the first century would know that for a Samaritan to ride into a Jewish town with a near-dead man on his horse, well, how much it would enrage the locals. They’d probably want blood. They’d probably want to make him a scapegoat.
All we know is that he does all he physically can while he is present to help. And then, just as he’s preparing to leave, maybe even facing an angry crowd outside, the Samaritan pays a price – any price necessary to take care of the wounded man. He covers the man’s debt. But then he says he’ll return. The Samaritan says he’s coming back.
“The Samaritan didn’t wait for us to become his neighbor,” said Peter, connecting the Samaritan directly to Jesus, “instead, he became our neighbor.”
The question isn’t who is my neighbor, what are the legal parameters that I must fulfill? The real question, rather, is who can I be a neighbor to? The difference is subtle but important. The first implies obligation, a legal duty, while the second is motivated out of eager anticipation.
Either way, the answer seems to be everyone.
At one point Peter said “Life is a body, a neighborhood of love, a community of love.” And it made me cry thinking of everyone back home and our neighborhood and our community of love. In some ways, it feels like we all found each other beside the road. I know I felt like each of our friends there at one point or another came alongside me when I was hurt and bleeding and naked and cleaned me with oil and wine.
Truth be told, Marley and I arrived in New Knoxville coming out of the most challenging time of our marriage. And each of you played such an important role in our healing, and ministering to our wounds.
Thank you for not leaving us by the side of the road.
For what it’s worth, Peter ended the sermon, as prayer and benediction with these words:
Don’t you want somebody to love?Don’t you need somebody to love? Couldn’t you love somebody to love? You better find somebody to love.
If those words sound familiar, or not, then you might enjoy listening to this… A song of worship never sounded better.
Peter noted that two things typically defined people in these days – how they dressed and how they talked. And Jesus describes this person laying naked and unconscious on the side of the road as basically a blank slate. It would have been impossible to know which group he belonged – Jew or Gentile, Roman or slave, friend or enemy – no way to tell.
And so then we have a leader of the religious establishment, a member of the upper class who was probably mounted and could carry the man to help, opting to do nothing.
And then along comes the Levite, of the tribe of Jews specifically tasked with serving the community. He couldn’t carry the man, but he could have at least rendered first aid. But he too walks on by.
Finally, the Samaritan comes along. During these times Samaritans were among the most reviled among the Jewish community. They were considered evil heretics and Jews prayed for their demise. Anyone hearing this story in the first century would know that for a Samaritan to ride into a Jewish town with a near-dead man on his horse, well, how much it would enrage the locals. They’d probably want blood. They’d probably want to make him a scapegoat.
All we know is that he does all he physically can while he is present to help. And then, just as he’s preparing to leave, maybe even facing an angry crowd outside, the Samaritan pays a price – any price necessary to take care of the wounded man. He covers the man’s debt. But then he says he’ll return. The Samaritan says he’s coming back.
“The Samaritan didn’t wait for us to become his neighbor,” said Peter, connecting the Samaritan directly to Jesus, “instead, he became our neighbor.”
The question isn’t who is my neighbor, what are the legal parameters that I must fulfill? The real question, rather, is who can I be a neighbor to? The difference is subtle but important. The first implies obligation, a legal duty, while the second is motivated out of eager anticipation.
Either way, the answer seems to be everyone.
At one point Peter said “Life is a body, a neighborhood of love, a community of love.” And it made me cry thinking of everyone back home and our neighborhood and our community of love. In some ways, it feels like we all found each other beside the road. I know I felt like each of our friends there at one point or another came alongside me when I was hurt and bleeding and naked and cleaned me with oil and wine.
Truth be told, Marley and I arrived in New Knoxville coming out of the most challenging time of our marriage. And each of you played such an important role in our healing, and ministering to our wounds.
Thank you for not leaving us by the side of the road.
For what it’s worth, Peter ended the sermon, as prayer and benediction with these words:
Don’t you want somebody to love?Don’t you need somebody to love? Couldn’t you love somebody to love? You better find somebody to love.
If those words sound familiar, or not, then you might enjoy listening to this… A song of worship never sounded better.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The artists I love
HAYS, KANSAS -- The night before we left I sat in our living room alone in the dark sipping red wine from a plastic cup. It was late. I was staring at our fireplace, thinking about the artists I love. And I was crying.
Randy had been over working all day painting downstairs – the third day he’d spent on that project working long meticulous hours during precious time off from his job. He worked like an artist painting a perfect blank tapestry. Randy is also an artist of conversation. He can talk to anyone and fill any discussion with insight, intelligence and wisdom. And if conversation ever slips into debate or -- as it sometimes should for those who are passionate about their world – even argument, Randy never holds overheated words against you. Even if you were a jackass. Instead, he paints your house.
Over and over again through the past few weeks, Randy’s wife, Sandra has made us meals and helped out with our many projects. On this day she had brought us a plate full of breakfast tacos before heading to work. She is a culinary artist. And I must say it has been a pleasure sharing her art over these past few years. But more importantly, Sandra’s creative genius lies in her gifts as mother and wife. Together Randy and Sandra have been a living book on parenting and we have learned more from their example than perhaps any others. They have, in ways great and small, made “love your neighbors” the easiest command of all.
Meanwhile, Sam had just spent hours with me figuring out how to finish the mantle on the fireplace. He didn’t leave until after 10 pm. The night before he’d missed his son’s baseball game. Tonight he’d missed a date with his wife. And when I was ready to give up on the mantle, he just made it happen. The house isn’t even on the market yet and he’s long since proven himself to be the hardest working realtor we’d ever worked with. Indeed, he takes what many make the science of home selling and turns it into an art form. But the simple fact is he would probably not be our realtor if he was not our friend first. And he has been a good friend, with the knack of saying simple, yet deeply profound words that can resonate for days. This is his real art.
Wendy had been over for the better part of the day as well painting upstairs, despite a rough night before. She hadn’t mentioned any of it as we’d worked, but -- as we have so many times before -- she’d stopped by to share a glass of wine and the challenges of the day with us. Wendy is an artist – in oils, watercolors, simple house paint and so much more, but she is also an artist of the heart. She cares and she shares. She gives and she receives with equal enthusiasm and grace. And, despite many challenges over the past few years, she is one of the most consistently peaceful people I know. And she is a truth-teller. She is constantly speaking truths. In fact, if I had to describe Wendy in two words they would be: Peaceful Prophet – she blends quiet humility with courageous conviction.
Diana has been a near constant presence over these last few weeks and this day was no
different. She brought us wonderful chicken salad sandwiches, using the baby’s precious nap time to make a meal for us. Knowing how organizationally challenged we are, she helped us make our garage sale happen. She would even sneak over at times, delivering moving boxes to us without even telling us. She is absolutely always ready to help, but that’s not her art.
Her art is in friendship. She and her husband Marc are warm, open, funny, and make being friends the most natural thing in the world. For Marley, Diana has become the kind of close friend that is very, very hard to leave behind. Marc, who is from Seattle originally, we think would be very wise to move his family back there as soon as possible. In the meantime, I will miss the merging of our tribes, the shared affinity for good beer and the conversations running late into the night.
Earlier in the day, I had gotten a package from Ted, my best friend, second only to my wife. It was his latest work of art – a DVD that he had made, the result of many hours of work and not a few conversations. The craftsmanship and attention to detail were breathtaking. Plus, it was really good. Ted is a renaissance man, a modern day DiVinci, who is one of those rare people who really can do anything he sets his mind to.
Anyway, I had called to congratulate him and tell him how much he sucks. I spent a good few minutes explaining in detail why and how he sucks for not being here to help us get ready for the move and that, basically, it’s all his fault that we’re getting a late start. Ted is the kind of friend you can do that with and not worry for a second that he’s taking any of seriously. Even though he really does suck and it really was all his fault. Ted is an artist in many ways, but the art of his that I cherish most is his uncompromising ability to be a great friend – to really know me, many warts and all, yet somehow seemingly still like me.
I knew that Darryl and Cathy would be over the next day, to see us off before we left. They had hosted a going away party at their house a few days earlier. The generous canvass they provided created a wide mural of memories that we will cherish forever. Indeed, generosity and openness are among the crafts they have perfected.
Outside, Grandpa Jeff had spent the hottest hours of the day, the first day that really felt like summer, edging the endless flowerbeds and mowing his signature diagonal cut across our lawn, sweat spilling off his body like a heavy shower. He is a landscaping maestro, bringing together the various pieces of our yard into perfect harmony. This has been a hard year for Jeff, but despite that he has remained one of the most giving people I know. And we have hiked up and down Jackass Hill together more than a few times, struggling together through pain and heartache. Jeff’s art is a combination of serving, meekness and willingness to struggle with the pain that marks him as a great leader.
Together, my mom and Jeff share the kind of gifts in grand-parenting that create a sweet song for our kids. Jeff has taught them both to golf and built within them an enthusiasm for sports and play. My mom has taught them to pray and instilled within them simple believing for the things of God. Plus, they're the kind of grandparents that remember to slip gifts quietly into the car, toys for playing on the road and in pools along the way. Most importantly, they have both sculpted relationship and memories with Amelia and Noah that are truly irreplaceable. And I know there will be much more to come.
My mom had been over earlier wanting to say her goodbyes, but I wouldn’t let her. I just wasn’t ready. Plus, I knew there was still a lot of work to do before we left the next day. We wouldn’t leave until she’d made it back from work Thursday evening, I told her. This move has been hardest on her most of all, and yet she has created a song of remarkable grace, with lyrics that somehow mix tears with encouragement and a melody that weaves an aching melancholy with the joy of the Lord. She is so proud of us, she tells us time and again. And this is the creative gift she shares with us and the world – the art of building up with honest and insightful praise.
And so I sat there in the dark, drinking my wine, looking at the fireplace through watery eyes. I had done a pretty good job all day staving off the tears, but somehow it was the fireplace that sent me over the edge.
When we first moved to New Knoxville and knew only my Mom and Jeff – and none of these other New Knoxville artists yet -- one of the only things we wanted in a house was a fireplace. We knew we wanted a home where friends and family could gather and in our mind that required a fireplace.
The house we eventually bought, however, while perfect in just about every other way, didn’t have one. So, even before our first boxes were unpacked we began building one. I designed the framing myself and helped build and install it. And so within weeks, even as winter was just beginning to settle in, the smells and sounds and glow and warmth of cracking wood were filling our home. But the fireplace remained a work in progress. The hearth needed tiling. And then, sigh, retiling (Marley was wise to have fired the first guy and not let him try again after the bullnose cracked off.) The rise above the mantle needed finishing. And even the mantle never quite looked right.
And so, two and half years later, the fireplace remained a work in progress. But there’s nothing like trying to sell a house to get things looking right. And suddenly, there it was. In the days, and even hours before, it had all come together. It was finished. And it was good.
The thing was, I realized, the people we had built it for, the relationships we had hoped to kindle and stoke and warm, they were not finished. They remain, sadly, tear-jerkingly because of our departure, but oh-so-thankfully in all other ways, very much a work in progress.
Some who are reading this from various corners of the globe can attest to the fact that we can be not the best of long distance friends. We’re trying and maybe someday we’ll even get our act together enough to send out Christmas cards like all the normal people do. But we like to think – we pray and hope, at any rate – that we are learning how to invest enough of ourselves in those we know and love that no matter how much time and distance may separate us that we can always just pick back up right where we left off whenever our paths cross again.
Randy had been over working all day painting downstairs – the third day he’d spent on that project working long meticulous hours during precious time off from his job. He worked like an artist painting a perfect blank tapestry. Randy is also an artist of conversation. He can talk to anyone and fill any discussion with insight, intelligence and wisdom. And if conversation ever slips into debate or -- as it sometimes should for those who are passionate about their world – even argument, Randy never holds overheated words against you. Even if you were a jackass. Instead, he paints your house.
Over and over again through the past few weeks, Randy’s wife, Sandra has made us meals and helped out with our many projects. On this day she had brought us a plate full of breakfast tacos before heading to work. She is a culinary artist. And I must say it has been a pleasure sharing her art over these past few years. But more importantly, Sandra’s creative genius lies in her gifts as mother and wife. Together Randy and Sandra have been a living book on parenting and we have learned more from their example than perhaps any others. They have, in ways great and small, made “love your neighbors” the easiest command of all.
Meanwhile, Sam had just spent hours with me figuring out how to finish the mantle on the fireplace. He didn’t leave until after 10 pm. The night before he’d missed his son’s baseball game. Tonight he’d missed a date with his wife. And when I was ready to give up on the mantle, he just made it happen. The house isn’t even on the market yet and he’s long since proven himself to be the hardest working realtor we’d ever worked with. Indeed, he takes what many make the science of home selling and turns it into an art form. But the simple fact is he would probably not be our realtor if he was not our friend first. And he has been a good friend, with the knack of saying simple, yet deeply profound words that can resonate for days. This is his real art.
Wendy had been over for the better part of the day as well painting upstairs, despite a rough night before. She hadn’t mentioned any of it as we’d worked, but -- as we have so many times before -- she’d stopped by to share a glass of wine and the challenges of the day with us. Wendy is an artist – in oils, watercolors, simple house paint and so much more, but she is also an artist of the heart. She cares and she shares. She gives and she receives with equal enthusiasm and grace. And, despite many challenges over the past few years, she is one of the most consistently peaceful people I know. And she is a truth-teller. She is constantly speaking truths. In fact, if I had to describe Wendy in two words they would be: Peaceful Prophet – she blends quiet humility with courageous conviction.
Diana has been a near constant presence over these last few weeks and this day was no
different. She brought us wonderful chicken salad sandwiches, using the baby’s precious nap time to make a meal for us. Knowing how organizationally challenged we are, she helped us make our garage sale happen. She would even sneak over at times, delivering moving boxes to us without even telling us. She is absolutely always ready to help, but that’s not her art.
Her art is in friendship. She and her husband Marc are warm, open, funny, and make being friends the most natural thing in the world. For Marley, Diana has become the kind of close friend that is very, very hard to leave behind. Marc, who is from Seattle originally, we think would be very wise to move his family back there as soon as possible. In the meantime, I will miss the merging of our tribes, the shared affinity for good beer and the conversations running late into the night.
Earlier in the day, I had gotten a package from Ted, my best friend, second only to my wife. It was his latest work of art – a DVD that he had made, the result of many hours of work and not a few conversations. The craftsmanship and attention to detail were breathtaking. Plus, it was really good. Ted is a renaissance man, a modern day DiVinci, who is one of those rare people who really can do anything he sets his mind to.
Anyway, I had called to congratulate him and tell him how much he sucks. I spent a good few minutes explaining in detail why and how he sucks for not being here to help us get ready for the move and that, basically, it’s all his fault that we’re getting a late start. Ted is the kind of friend you can do that with and not worry for a second that he’s taking any of seriously. Even though he really does suck and it really was all his fault. Ted is an artist in many ways, but the art of his that I cherish most is his uncompromising ability to be a great friend – to really know me, many warts and all, yet somehow seemingly still like me.
I knew that Darryl and Cathy would be over the next day, to see us off before we left. They had hosted a going away party at their house a few days earlier. The generous canvass they provided created a wide mural of memories that we will cherish forever. Indeed, generosity and openness are among the crafts they have perfected.
Outside, Grandpa Jeff had spent the hottest hours of the day, the first day that really felt like summer, edging the endless flowerbeds and mowing his signature diagonal cut across our lawn, sweat spilling off his body like a heavy shower. He is a landscaping maestro, bringing together the various pieces of our yard into perfect harmony. This has been a hard year for Jeff, but despite that he has remained one of the most giving people I know. And we have hiked up and down Jackass Hill together more than a few times, struggling together through pain and heartache. Jeff’s art is a combination of serving, meekness and willingness to struggle with the pain that marks him as a great leader.
Together, my mom and Jeff share the kind of gifts in grand-parenting that create a sweet song for our kids. Jeff has taught them both to golf and built within them an enthusiasm for sports and play. My mom has taught them to pray and instilled within them simple believing for the things of God. Plus, they're the kind of grandparents that remember to slip gifts quietly into the car, toys for playing on the road and in pools along the way. Most importantly, they have both sculpted relationship and memories with Amelia and Noah that are truly irreplaceable. And I know there will be much more to come.
My mom had been over earlier wanting to say her goodbyes, but I wouldn’t let her. I just wasn’t ready. Plus, I knew there was still a lot of work to do before we left the next day. We wouldn’t leave until she’d made it back from work Thursday evening, I told her. This move has been hardest on her most of all, and yet she has created a song of remarkable grace, with lyrics that somehow mix tears with encouragement and a melody that weaves an aching melancholy with the joy of the Lord. She is so proud of us, she tells us time and again. And this is the creative gift she shares with us and the world – the art of building up with honest and insightful praise.
And so I sat there in the dark, drinking my wine, looking at the fireplace through watery eyes. I had done a pretty good job all day staving off the tears, but somehow it was the fireplace that sent me over the edge.
When we first moved to New Knoxville and knew only my Mom and Jeff – and none of these other New Knoxville artists yet -- one of the only things we wanted in a house was a fireplace. We knew we wanted a home where friends and family could gather and in our mind that required a fireplace.
The house we eventually bought, however, while perfect in just about every other way, didn’t have one. So, even before our first boxes were unpacked we began building one. I designed the framing myself and helped build and install it. And so within weeks, even as winter was just beginning to settle in, the smells and sounds and glow and warmth of cracking wood were filling our home. But the fireplace remained a work in progress. The hearth needed tiling. And then, sigh, retiling (Marley was wise to have fired the first guy and not let him try again after the bullnose cracked off.) The rise above the mantle needed finishing. And even the mantle never quite looked right.
And so, two and half years later, the fireplace remained a work in progress. But there’s nothing like trying to sell a house to get things looking right. And suddenly, there it was. In the days, and even hours before, it had all come together. It was finished. And it was good.
The thing was, I realized, the people we had built it for, the relationships we had hoped to kindle and stoke and warm, they were not finished. They remain, sadly, tear-jerkingly because of our departure, but oh-so-thankfully in all other ways, very much a work in progress.
Some who are reading this from various corners of the globe can attest to the fact that we can be not the best of long distance friends. We’re trying and maybe someday we’ll even get our act together enough to send out Christmas cards like all the normal people do. But we like to think – we pray and hope, at any rate – that we are learning how to invest enough of ourselves in those we know and love that no matter how much time and distance may separate us that we can always just pick back up right where we left off whenever our paths cross again.
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