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.

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.

Under the Overpass

COLUMBIA, MISSOURI – It was smooth sailing all through our drive on Friday. Until we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by tornadoes, that is.

It was funny because my mom’s oldest friend Carmen, who we will visit on our way through Kansas, had just given us a full Driving Through Tornado Alley Briefing just the day before. Well, maybe it wasn’t funny, but at least it was well timed.

We were about a half hour outside of St. Louis when we saw the wall of darkness rising up like mountains on the horizon before us. It was the kind of wall of darkness pilots make wide hundred-mile-long detours around if they can. A pulsing glow of lightning thumped like a thunderous heartbeat from deep within the mass of swirling black clouds. It was freaky.

Marley had just called her brother Chris to touch base and thankfully he was in front of the computer. She was just in the middle of making a joke about tornado warnings and taking immediate cover as Chris checked the local weather radars and said there was a tornado warning and that said we should take immediate cover.

There was a pause at this point.

“Are you serious?” she said

“It says one tornado has already touched down and more are possible,” he said.

Within a few minutes we found some low ground under an overpass. There was a crew of construction workers topside that hadn’t heard yet. We passed on what we knew and they scrambled to get everything battened down as the full force of the storm descended on us. They would later say on the local radio station that in the next 30 minutes it would rain 3 ½ inches and that at least three more twisters had touched in our immediate vicinity. And that another wave of storm front was moving up quickly from the south for Round Two.

It sounded like we had just enough time to make a break for it and, wishing the construction guys good luck and Godspeed, that’s exactly what we did. We listened on the radio as the next front battered the area we’d just left even as beautiful blue skies opened up in front of us.

Amelia was a total trooper through it all, scared but focused on tending to her nervous brood of cats. Noah, of course, slept through the whole thing.

We made it another few hours before settling in for the night here in Columbia. The kids had a nice long swim in the pool before bed and had another good swim just now as we prepare to hit the road.

As we sat together eating breakfast Amelia, reflecting matter-of-factly, said “I know why we didn’t get hurt by the tornadoes yesterday.”

Marley and I both looked up. “Because I prayed,” she said with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. And of course it was.

Hard Night

NEW CASTLE, INDIANA – We made it ten miles before the cat started puking. Only 2397 miles to go. Or so we thought. Apparently we were already going in the wrong direction.

As we fueled up at the New Knoxville Market, I punched in our new address on Bainbridge Island and waited for what seemed like minutes for the GPS to calculate our route. When it was finally done the display read:

Miles to Destination: 2407
Time to Destination: 39 hours, 10 minutes

“Wow, that’s like a work week of driving,” said Marley.

No problem, I thought, pulling out on to Route 29. It was well into the evening. The sun wasn’t quite setting yet, but casting long shadows and a perfect yellow glow on the Ohio countryside. The golden hour, photographers call it.

In front of us, a thin slice of crescent moon was beginning its descent to the western horizon. It was strange but Ohio never looked so beautiful. That’s about when Twister started puking.

A few months ago we had bought a gross of paper towels from Sam’s Club, but had barely put a dent in them. In the days before we left, we had been handing them out like so many highly-absorbent quilty parting gifts, yet somehow had saved none of them for our trip. Not one.

So as Marley is trying to mop of Twister’s mess with Kleenex we notice the navigator has now added more than a hundred miles to our trip.

Miles to Destination: 2541

By the time we decided to call it a night, we’d made it here to New Castle, Indiana – about half hour outside of Indianapolis. The first leg of our great migration west ended in a scratchy roadside motel with an out of focus TV and an AC unit that rattled through the night like a rusty old train.

It was a hard night. Not because of all the hard work that day or broken TVs or noisy air conditioners or even puking cats. It was a hard night because with each passing mile the full weight of what we are leaving behind truly settled on my soul. We are leaving so much more than just a place. We are leaving friends and family that have meant more to us and have done more for us than mere words could ever express.

Yes, we are going to something. And going to something so challenging and new will be fun, scary and exciting.

But right now we are just leaving. And leaving something so rich and wonderful is sad and hard and heartbreaking.

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.