Life After "The Trip"

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We coasted into Paradise, PA in Willie on June 9th after almost 4 months on the road. And folks, we were ragged. The Trip was everything we had hoped and so much more, but we were tired and since losing our brakes on the Teton Pass in mid-May, I’d felt edgy every time Shawn put Willie in drive. So to finally park that big lug in my in-laws’ driveway for one last time was a great and necessary relief.

But then we had to begin “life after The Trip”. Whoa.

That was just over 4 months ago. Honestly, I wish I had blogged every day of that time. I wish I had carried you along on that journey. But it’s been and gone. However, I have one revelation to pass along to you that may perhaps sum up that time in our lives: The Trip, the big, wonderful, chance-of-a-lifetime trip I was so afraid would be our last big taste of adventure…was actually our first little nibble.

Funny enough, everything we feared would happen when we got home from our trip actually did. We ended up living in my in-laws’ basement (and still do—yikes!), Shawn’s writing projects dried up, and we didn’t have two pennies to rub together. I find it interesting when we voice the things we fear, often times God says, “Huh, let’s just go there and see what it’s like.” And that’s just what He did; He plunked us right smack in the middle of where we never wanted to be.

And that’s when this little quote from Anne Lamott made all the difference: ““E.L. Doctorow once said that 'Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.' You don't have to see where you're going, you don't have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you. This is right up there with the best advice on writing, or life, I have ever heard.”

I had to agree.

When we didn’t know what to do or where to go, we prayed, “God, just give us the next step. We don’t need to know the destination, we just need our headlights to light up that little bit in front of us.” And God answered. He said, “Hang tight.”

Easier said than done. Shawn tried to hunt up writing work. Possibilities would arise and then fizzle out. We tried to get comfortable in his parents’ basement and remind ourselves that our current square footage easily tripled what we had while living on Willie. And we tightened our budget to the last notch on its belt; we couldn’t pull any tighter.

And I told myself, “You just need to get through this tough stage and then it will be better.” But I had no guarantee of that. No one, not God , and certainly not Jesus, ever said that life would be easy. So God confronted me with this question, “Maile, what if it never gets easier? What if money is always tight and you always have to scrape just to get by? Will you still believe I am good and trustworthy?”

Because the truth is that this world is full of wonderful, godly people who struggle, whether it be financially or physically or mentally. Crappy things happen to the very best folks out there, people living much harder lives than my own. Could I still believe God was good if we never “got out of this phase”? For some strange reason I knew in my heart that I could.

And that belief was tested.

In the months to come, Shawn would receive a new writing project only to have the clients change their minds a few weeks later. We would find out that we were pregnant with baby number 5, and at 14 weeks I’d miscarry that sweet little bundle. It seemed like nothing was going our way, but yet there was this peace above it all. I found such comfort in this quote from Psalm 62:

“One thing God has spoken,
two things have I heard:
That You, O God, are strong,
and that You, O Lord, are loving.”

Love. I realized that’s all it boiled down to for me. During The Trip God was serenading me, and I got to the end of it knowing one thing: that He loved me. And that’s what kept my faith strong in the midst of struggle and heartbreak. Because isn’t that what we all want; just to be loved and loved well. And that’s what He’s doing right now: loving me well. I wish I could explain it better. I wish I knew how to sum it up in with a polished little story. I can’t. I just know that He’s been singing the most beautiful song in my ear ever since my husband’s business went belly-up three years ago, and the notes keep getting clearer and the lyrics more eloquent. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced.

So as of now we can see as far as our headlights and somehow, that’s just enough.

A Good Gift Giver

So tonight we begin the final leg of our journey.  Two nights ago Shawn and I sat across from each other (he on the couch, myself in the booth) and decided that his grandma’s failing health was the call beckoning us back a week earlier than we had intended. 

It seems like such a small alteration to the plans: one week. But as I took a walk at our campground in rural Indiana after our decision, I felt so strange.  By the end of the existing week, our trip would be over.  My heart was fragmented with feeling:

Excitement (anticipating the tight hugs and grinning faces of so many folks that we love and miss.)

Regret (were there things left undone on this trip, moments I missed or didn’t hold quite long enough?)

Sadness (when anything great comes to an end, sadness is always an appropriate response.)

Celebration (likewise, when anything great comes to an end, celebration is always an appropriate response.)

Fear (that our great adventure has come to an end; that a humdrum existence is all we can expect from here on out.)

I shared that last feeling with a friend over email yesterday.  But as I wrote it, my fear dissipated; fear has gotten more feeble on this journey.  So I wrote this to my friend: “But I also know that God is far more wild than that.”

In the past 4 months, I’ve seen more beauty than in my entire life up to this point.  It was holy yet tangled, majestic yet terrifying, serene yet treacherous .  And I found myself often asking this question: What kind of a God makes a creation like this?” 

A wild one.

Two and a half years ago, our goal was to own a bigger house and a nicer car.  But God was too good to leave us there.  He dreamed bigger than us.  So He gently as possible, laid us at rock bottom, stripping us of our biggest earthly possessions (my husband’s business as well as our home) and calling us to the basement of my in-laws.

I remember the night after we discovered rock bottom.  I awoke, my heart aching with questions and sadness.  I laid on the floor beside our bed, my forehead buried in the carpet, my fists pressed against eyes, asking many questions of God. And as clearly as I’ve ever known anything, God told me this:

“What I’m doing is a gift.”

Immediately, my response was “Well, it’s a pretty shitty gift.”  I quickly learned how very wrong I was.

Today, we’re still unwrapping that gift.  It didn’t show up the next morning on the kitchen table as a simple box wrapped in patterned paper with a stick-on bow.  No, it’s arrived in pieces over these years: multi-faceted and deliberate, strange and fantastic.  Parts of it came in the garden in our backyard, others in the contented smile of my husband after a day of waltzing with words or our childrens’ shouts of joy after discovering freshly laid eggs in the chicken coop.  Pieces came in new friendships enjoyed over egg casserole or glasses of wine.  

And the biggest portion so far has came in the form of this cross-country trip.

At one point I questioned God’s ability to give good gifts.   I don’t question it any longer.  I don’t ask why he took everything away because I now know that it wasn’t everything.  It was such a small pile of brick and metal that wasn’t worth the price of my life. 

And He gave me an adventure instead.  Because the best gift giver doesn’t give you a photo of a waterfall. No, He takes you to the foot of that waterfall, let’s its billowy mists dampen your hair, the thunder of its lusty descent vibrate in your chest, and the coolness of its waters quench your thirst.

So this leg of our journey comes to an end, but I sit on the edge of my seat, forehead pressed against the window, eager for this adventure to continue.

In the Room of My Mind

Immediately after our incident on the mountain, I invited some distant acquaintances over to keep me company in the gray room of my mind.  I tidied up, straightened the leather sofa and chair, stoked the fire to keep the room warm, too warm, uncomfortably warm.  I knew that’s how these folks liked it.

And they arrived, a noisy bunch, in wrinkled clothes of muted tones, hair unwashed and tangled.  And their greetings as they walked through the door were different yet always the same:

“He can’t be trusted.”

“He isn’t good.”

“He won't show up when you need Him most.”

“He doesn’t care about you or anyone else.”

“He’s selfish.”

They filed in with this wrangle of words filling every corner, every crevice of my sweltering room.  Every corner but one.

For in that corner sat a mysterious woman with large eyes and a knowing smile.  She nodded politely to all of my guests, who in turn ignored her and urged their voices louder.  I ignored her as well.  I didn’t know how she got there and simply didn’t care why she stayed; my only focus was the deep satisfaction I was receiving from this cacophony around me, the hopeless drowning sensation it gave to my soul, the satisfying scratching that feels like relief while tearing flesh and summoning blood.

Without the slightest encouragement from me, she swept up next to me as I bent over the fire, throwing dead log after dead log onto an already billowing fire.  And in the heat of the flame, she whispered in my ear, “But is it really true?”

I wasn’t surprised by her question.  I’d been waiting the whole time for her to rise and ask it.  But I recoiled in disgust, spitting back at her, “As a matter of fact, it is!” Rushing away, I looked for an open chair, a place to escape her inappropriate questions.  The only available seat was the one she just left; I nearly ran toward it and huddled in its corner.

Always persistent, she followed me while the clamor of my guests continued, a constant tone-deaf chorus that was ever so slightly getting on my nerves.  I sensed her kneeling beside me though I kept my eyes averted, staring at the shimmering silver paint on the walls.

This time I didn’t wait for a question; I asked one of my own:  “And what would have happened had the emergency ramp not been there?  Tell me that.” 

Without so much as a breath between my statement and hers, she replied, “But it was, Maile; it was.”

Smoldering, I sat silent.  She was another one of those “positive thinkers”, those “glass is always half-full” types and I didn’t like it. But then she spoke again.

“Tell me this: Has the emergency ramp ever not been there?  Has the “bad thing” ever happened?”

These questions startled me.  For the first time in our conversation, I looked directly at her.  Tears softly gathered in the corners of her large eyes, swelling then breaking in gentle ribbons down the smooth terrain of her cheeks.  She already knew the answer.

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice stumbling and uneven. “My dad leaving, my parents’ divorce, my miscarriage, our failed business, the loss of our home…”  There were so many disappointments and losses.  So much pain. The list kept growing, and yet with each situation I presented, she knew it; not just the name, but the details.  She knew the devastation, the indescribable ache, the unquenchable hunger.

Suddenly I realized the quietness of the room.  A sensible fire crackled on the hearth and my raucous guests had left.  As I surveyed the empty yet cozy room, I heard her whisper once more in my ear: “Is it true?”

No, it wasn’t true.  He was not deceitful or unkind or evil or selfish.  No, in each and every one of those situations He had proven Himself to be good and loving and worthy of my trust: 

He gave me the evidence of miracles in the now-restored marriage of my parents.

He filled my empty and aching arms with a beautiful, blue-eyed girl named Abra.

He ushered our family into our most exciting era yet as my husband began pursuing his dream to be a writer.

And in the absence of a house, He gave me a whole country to explore and taste and enjoy.

When I looked up from my pondering, I found myself alone, tranquil and content, while staring into a mirror with those kind and wondering eyes gazing back at me.

The Blessing of Distraction

First and foremost, thank you to each and every person who offered their wisdom and empathy after my last post. I have kept quiet here on the blog for the past several weeks while in the room of my mind I sat and conversed with all of your responses. I intend to share a snapshot of that conversation later this week. But today, I'm still stuck on the brakes.

As we drove into the serene foliage of the campground where Willie (our bus) would rest for the next 5 days, my nerves draped over every millimeter of my body like live wires, jumping and sparking with the slightest brush of contact. Willie had just accomplished the daring feat of driving down yet another steep grade during our descent into this village at the base of Mt. Rushmore.

In the weeks since our incident on the Teton Pass, every slight undulation on each road we traveled caused me to breathe in short, machine gun bursts and sweat profusely. So this path to Mt. Rushmore, littered with sizable hills and curves that forced Shawn to rely on Willie's unreliable brakes, kept me in a complete state of panic.

Thankfully, coming into town, we had no incidents. We learned after Teton that Willie brakes a lot better without the added weight of towing our minivan behind him. Hence, on every 6% grade hill or higher, we got into the practice of taking the van off. I drove the van down the hill with the kids while Shawn drove Willie.

But honestly, I was tired of the worry. Every time I kissed Shawn through the open driver's side window of the minivan and watched him walk away toward Willie, I thought it would be our last. Of course my imagination provided the Richard Marx ballad for background music and reeled back the action of Shawn's walk so everything was in slow mo and saturated with emotion. So I'd drive down the hill, crying into my shoulder (as to not alarm the children) while whispering unintelligible pleas to God, if He was even up there or even cared.

Of course, every time we made it safely to the bottom.

So by the time we got to Mt. Rushmore, I felt I couldn't take one more mountain or hill or 7% grade. And unfortunately, we had a little bit of all of that to face when we would leave this town in 5 days time.

All week, the worry lingered about a quarter inch above my head, a moving cartoon cloud complete with rain and lightning. I kept busy with the kids and cooking and monument-viewing, but the cloud hovered. My mom flew into Rapid City to stay with us on the bus for a few days. As I drove to the airport to pick her up (the very roads we'd be driving in a few days' time), I memorized every incline and decline, every turn and stoplight, judging each based on their potential trouble for Willie's brakes.

The evening of our departure arrived. My stomach felt corseted while the armpits of my t-shirt turned dark with perspiration. My kids, my mom, and I loaded up in the minivan, and Shawn came over for his farewell kiss.

As we drove away, my mom listened as I gave her a rundown of the potential hazards ahead of us. About two miles into the drive, she managed to steer the conversation to other topics, occasionally shouting to the back of the van to get the kids opinions on this or that. She seemed completely unconcerned.

That my friends, is the blessing of distraction. Because while I still felt frighted and worried, seeing my mom calm and cheerful gave me hope that perhaps everything might just be okay. She kept me from evaporating into a steam cloud of "what if's"; she kept me present in the safe, forward motion of a minivan driving down a highway with the excited chatter of 4 children and their adoring Meme.

And you know what? We made it down the mountain.

Failing Brakes and Faltering Faith

Most things I worry about never happen anyway. 

                   -from “Crawling Back to You” by Tom Petty

I sat in the booth, facing forward, looking out the panoramic windows at the front of the bus.   While Sammy napped in the bed in the back room, the three older kids sat beside and opposite me, noses pressed to the glass of the side windows.  They "ohhhed" and "awwwed" over the green and white landscape rising and falling around us like some interactive cyclorama. 

Beauty can overwhelm you sometimes; it bowled us over that day.  The road to these mountains had winded through valleys and brief prairies that reached out and grabbed the breath right out of my lungs. 

“This is too beautiful,” I kept saying, hand over my mouth, trying to keep a little air for myself.

Then we began the climb up Teton Pass.  While we gasped and pointed at the arrowhead shaped evergreens standing like a majestic army at attention and spanning the snowy peaks of the mountain, Willie wheezed and puttered up the 10% grade road leading always up and always higher.  We marveled, not giving thought to the path down this mountain.  

We’ve managed to do that this entire trip: not look too far ahead.

When the road crested and began its steep and windy descent, Shawn pulled Willie back to the lowest gear, easing Willie’s heavy frame slowly downward.  But soon Willie whined and lurched forward to the next gear, gaining speed one quick mph after another.  So Shawn would press the brakes pulling the reins in, the brake light on the dashboard blazing orange.

My eyes forgot the scenery, the soldiers saluting us outside.  Instead, my eyes rested on the orange light flashing on and off from below the steering wheel.  I don’t know much about vehicular mechanics, but I know that you can’t ride your brakes on a mountain.  Shawn knew that, too. At the next gravelly pull-off, he eased Willie over and put on the parking brake. “We’ll just wait here till the brakes cool off a little,” he announced from the front seat.

“Yeah, good idea,” I replied.  We’d just take it slow and easy down the mountain; we were in no hurry.  

So we waited.  The kids chattered about the snow, wishing for boots and gloves, eager to frolic in the last remnants of winter.  I sat there, eager for the valley at the bottom of the mountain, for flat roads, for the sight of a small Wyoming town blooming with bustle in the spring.

With a high whistle from Willie, Shawn released the parking brake, inched back onto the road. But soon Willie began complaining and jolted into the next gear; again the orange light flashed on the dashboard.  We saw another pull off coming up on the right.  Shawn steered Willie toward it, his foot pressing further down on the brake pedal, but we felt it’s effect less and less.  Shawn pulled the parking brake once we reached the gravelly patch.

Nothing. The parking brake didn’t work. 

I saw Shawn’s second foot join the brake pedal, his full body weight pressed upon that rectangular piece of metal.  But still we moved forward, gaining speed slowly and steadily.

“Can you stop?” I asked, trying to disguise the panic in my voice from the children.  He shook his head, bracing himself between the black cushion of the driver's seat and the brake pedal solid against the floor. 

And that’s when the shaking began, inside of me and outside of me.  My hands began to tremor, my legs jittered as I stood up from the booth and walked toward the front of the bus.

“Hey, guys, why don’t you take a seat, okay?” I said nonchalantly to the kids, eyes never leaving Shawn’s two feet. Eager questions unraveled from their mouths, but I paid no attention.

It’s funny but my first thought was, “How can I get the kids off this bus?”  Sometimes I wonder if I’m a good enough mom, if I really love them like I should.  And then a moment like that comes and they are my first concern; I know I must protect them.

But getting off the bus was out of the question.  We were moving too quickly to open the door and jump out. While my eyes scanned the road before us, my mind was already a mile ahead, imagining the worst.  But while my mind ushered our souls through the pearly gates of heaven, my eyes spied the emergency runaway ramp that appeared to our left. 

“Babe, what about the runaway ramp?” I suggested as calmly as possible.

“I’m gonna have to use it,” Shawn replied, still straining against the brake.

Traffic came towards us on the left, so we had to wait for a clearing, hope for a clearing, before veering over. 

Then it came. In seconds, Willie’s unhindered wheels came to an abrupt stop in the deep stones on the runaway ramp.

And there we sat, the engine running, the bus still, and the kids smiling. I sat down at the booth, the wobbly foundation of my legs unable to hold me up any longer.

I don’t even remember the words we spoke after that.  And I don’t remember relief or thankfulness rushing over me.  No, I just felt scared.  Really, really scared.

Later on we drove down the rest of the mountain in our minivan while a tow truck pulled Willie to safety in the valley below the Teton Pass.  As we coasted around the remaining 2 miles of curves and steep grade that the mountain offered, we realized how close disaster had been.  If Willie had given out just 40 yards later than he did, we would have crashed, either into or over the side of the mountain.  There were no manageable pull-offs or runaway ramps to help us for the rest of the way down.

That was a sobering thought.

Funny enough, you would think that an experience like that would bolster my faith.  But it actually left me questioning a lot.  The next day, I would write this to God in my journal:

“I try to explain away instances like yesterday.  Immediately, I excuse it to 'chance' because there are a lot of people in this world who don’t have an emergency ramp show up just in the nick of time.  So Your love is either fickle, or had nothing to do with yesterday, or doesn’t exist. Because here’s the hard part: I don’t know if I could have found Your love in the scenario that would have presented itself if that ramp hadn’t been there.  That thirty seconds was lonely, God.  It was scary.”

So here I now sit in this tension: awed by the beauty of this world yet terrified by its ugliness, ceaselessly thankful that we made it safely down the mountain yet baffled by a God that sometimes doesn’t provide the emergency ramp.

I want to understand that God.

So here is my question to you:  How do you reconcile a good and loving God with the pain and discomfort that has occurred in your own life?