Making The Most Of A Road Trip

 AAA projects 38 million Americans will take a road trip over Labor Day weekend…

These are snapshots of a world that opens to you on a road trip. Ten-foot walls of snow beside and canyon of blacktop before us, we ascend the road to Glacier Point, high above Yosemite valley on the first Spring Day it opens to vehicles.

Sandwiches at roadside stops hidden beside waterfall and alpine flowers; pink Mountain Pride and yellow Butterweed. Seals in San Francisco, dining with my daughter on Pier 39, summer hailstorms and the best build-your-own salad stop ever outside of Visalia (thank you Yelp!).

My first car was a white AMC Hornet, an oblong piece of steel with a steering wheel and crisscross olive upholstery that my dad purchased at a L.A. County used car auction. You could still see the shadow of a circle on the doors where the county emblem had been peeled off. To seventeen-year-old me it was the portal to adventure. It was a straight shot down the boulevard to the Hollywood Hills (cue Bob Seger), Ventura Freeway took me to the canyons and onto the coast. Always wondering what was beyond the bend. And so it began.

A warning about road trips. They are a doorway to adventure and a catalyst to heated arguments. The best man at my wedding nearly jumped out of the passenger door while we were driving through East Texas. My wife and I had our first fight (on our honeymoon) because of a wrong turn. Cooped up in a small space necessitates your ‘shot-gun’ and you get along better than most. Friends that require lunch at noon and dinner at five, the always sober and serious, those who choose schedule over serendipity will not be accompanying me.

The idyllic Instagram moments won’t happen if you stay attached to your phone. Ironic. Leave the highway. Look out the window. Eat at hole-in-the-wall places. I was first introduced to Peanut Butter whiskey at a roadside stop. I’ve had the best beef-barley soup ever off the beaten path, and the best breakfasts. Yes, you risk having the worst Tex-Mex meal of your life but it’s well worth it for the story.

Solo trips are worth it. Great bonds can be formed with family and friends. Don’t be the guy that won’t pull over until the destination. Plan for the big things like where to sleep but buffer that Google travel time for sightseeing. Take the old highway. If a girl at a roadside shop asks if you have neat handwriting; help her letter the sandwich board.

Sir Richard Burton once said, “The gladdest moment in human life, me thinks, is a departure into unknown lands.” Departure begins at the end of your driveway or at the car rental booth at the airport. If you let it, I promise you, the road will bring you to magnificent beauty, sumptuous road side stops and unique encounters with other human beings. Gas up the car!

 

 

Book Review The Frequency by Randall D. St. Claire

 St. Claire had me quick to turn the pages from the outset. Once that bell rings on the door of Bronx Rousselle’s pawn shop questions and collateral escalate quickly. A woman shows up at his door accompanied by her mental-hospital escapee brother and a box of Inuit relics. Bronx seeks out answers in old friends and a new flame. As cold bodies stack up faster than interest on a bad loan Bronx will question his life choices as well as his ingenuity. It’s an adventure that leads from an elderly decrepit Inuit translator to the works of a ground-breaking Serbian scientist, from Minnesota to Greenland and from city hotels to a tent in the Tundra. Can old friends be trusted? Will new bonds hold when all else gives way?

St. Claire is a master of dialects, with quirky and idiom cracking characters pervading the book. The dialogue is terse, believable and humorous. Bronx Rousselle is a hard-boiled, stubborn, physically strong character much in the mold of protagonists in the same genre. The narrative style, as well as Bronx’ words and commentary had me convinced of his fierce and lonely heart. The accompanying characters’ banter brought me many a smile.

This was the first time reading Randall D. St. Claire and he hit all the right notes. If you like gritty fast-paced books this is a solid choice. Where it touched on arctic survival and scientific skullduggery, I found it well researched and believable. A ‘page-turner’ of a book, he had me up to the last paragraph.

I received a free copy of this book from the Lone Star Literary Life Campaign in exchange for my honest review.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Struggling With Sovereign Sufficiency

Two weeks out and I’m hoping the anchors will hold. The anchors holding my tendon attached to my shoulder, tethering me to six weeks of living one-handed. Not driving, struggling to put on a shirt, the wife helping to button pants.. Massive tear they said. Small rips are more common. And despite the wonders of how the shoulder works, with the rotator cuff and all it seems God should have built in an easier repair mechanism. Like when bones break. Cast them in plaster of Paris and they grow back. Rotator cuff involves attaching tendon to bone. A slower slipperier process.

When the refrigerator went out this week, I could only help my wife empty it one or two small items at a time. Uph. Life is making it clear that I believe my worth is predicated on how much I’m doing; let me help you with that, let me build that, plant that, carry that. When Jacob wrestled with God, he was doing something at least. It’s the inactive quiet I’m finding difficult.

There are over 700 verses where God tells us to be still. The most well-known perhaps, “Be still and know that I am God.” A friend who found Jesus in her teens told me she’d just come to the end of her rope, “You go through rough things and you realize there’s nowhere else to go."

“Trust Him for His grace, behind a frowning providence, He hides a smiling face.” We know this in our bones, God does His deepest work in those places our strength can’t reach. Difficult to be still though, to rest in Gods’ sovereign sufficiency. A drowning man thrashes about violently.

I’m not finding it easy relaxing at home, putting plans on hold and giving up control. A lazy river ride is relaxing initially; but what if you couldn’t get off?  I went walking, to get out of the house, break the monotony. A woman pulled up next to me and shouted (I’m wearing a sling), “I had that done 2 years ago. Keep at it! It’s worth it!” I’m thankful for surprises, for Uber and my wife’s patience. I’m working on letting go. Getting glimpses of that smiling face as I ‘surrender to divine providence.” My anchor holds within the veil.

 Photo by Art Institute of Chicago on Unsplash

Wine Lies In The Relief Lines

 Wine lies in the relief lines of every good road trip.

Someone once said they disliked humanity on the whole but individuals were often delightful. Meeting those individuals is a benefit of travelling. Though bad travel stories abound, serendipity surprises.

We walked toward roadside relief beyond the shiny sliding doors of the TA travel center. A shiny black SUV pulled up beside me, rolling down the passenger window. Reaching across the vehicle, he said, “My name is Achmed. May I ask you for a favor?” As I shook his hand he recounted an incredibly intricate story of how his wallet had been stolen at Walmart, and he was driving through Santa Fe to California and did not have enough money for gasoline. In the back seat, his pregnant wife nodded through each mounting interval. By god’s grace, I really wanted to help him if he needed it. Yet every intuitive alarm in my body was ringing “No!”. I glanced at my wife. And I offered him five dollars. He left in a huff. Sometimes you open with a move to discern whether to lean in or out.

You’ll meet quirky people. “And how do you spell that?” asked the Barista. The tall Teutonic looking gentleman replied that it was “Erich with an H,” and launched into a lengthy story of how his mother didn’t want him confused with other Erics. We ordered after them and went to sit out on the patio. The couple invited us to sit with them, “No need to sit in the sun!” He was an engineer of sorts (shocking, right?) and his wife a nurse. Because we were in Santa Fe, conversation turned to art. Erich said a friend of his is the most left-brained engineer he knows, going on to tell us about how his friend designs houses and sees possibilities in texture and color. They live in Poway, forty-one miles south of Temecula Valley, which bills itself as “a wine-plus spirited destination inspired by the vine.” We wrapped up our conversation in agreement; Temecula Valley isn’t Napa and shouldn’t charge Napa prices.

“I’ll sit with these folks,” Mary the Administrator shouted to her bureaucrat friends. Tall, sharply dressed and sharply featured, she pulled up a chair. Though Mary is HR administrator for a school district, she is also, seemingly, the unofficial PR spokesperson for New Mexico. She leans in. Begins with an affirmation of what we’ve already encountered, New Mexicans are a warm and welcoming people. The conversation bounced around like small talk does; places to visit, places that no longer are. How the fires ravaged Ruidoso, draught (light snow) in Taos and why the college makes Los Cruces hop. The talk flowed, like the Rio Grande, shallow, in small ebbs and flows, to the Gorge an hour north, home to one of New Mexico’s’ three wine regions.

 

 

 

Not A Charade-Longing for Intimacy In Marriage

 I’m gesticulating wildly in the midst of a game of charades. I’m focused on the faces of my teammates.  “Three syllables, sounds like...” Trying to get the picture across. The clues aren’t connecting. Pointing to my chest and making drawings in the air isn’t helping.  At the end of the round, my ex turns to me and says, “You are way to intense.” Words that cut like a sword.

My friend, my wife of fourteen years, affirms my intensity. On the same hand she is wired with soft and gentle edges. She is the reason we get invited to parties. With that mix, like any mix, it is easy for us to hurt each other. With words. Or complete silence. To insist that she be more like me. Friendship should be different. “Iron sharpens iron,’ is friction which renders a positive result.

Marriage is meant to be more intimate. If you want it. Authentic connection isn’t easy. Sister, I’ve got wounds and warts. I’m bent in ways that will hurt you. If I wound you, if you wound me; where do we go? Cry to Christ.

Nobody likes to hurt. At gut level I’m not going to pursue relationship if it hurts self. Painful words, wounds from my parents and previous partners lead me to protect my heart.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong. Please forgive me. I love you.” This is a mantra that my wife’s family picked up at a Christian youth conference. Now we use it in circumstances ranging from silly (it really did need salt!)  to serious (I’m sorry I screamed at you). It’s about commitment to the covenant.

I long for that intimacy. It’s only going to come when I lean inward with courage not outward with fear. It’s so crucial to have the relationship be a safe sacred space. As Keith Green once sang, “For there are many where friendship's unknown, they live together but really alone. And the days go their ways in silence, tense hours of woe. We do not mean to have it so."

 

I'm Giving Up Sleep For Lent

 Not all sleep, of course. It’s my first time ‘giving something up’ for Lent. Ideally, it’s an opportunity to identify with and appreciate the significant suffering that Christ went through on my behalf. People give up all kinds of stuff, chocolate, fish, social media and sports. I know of one person that sacrificed sarcasm.

I don’t want to approach Easter with arrogance. Nor do I desire to enter into self-flagellation as Martin Luther did before he understood his justification by faith. Seems the season should hold some sacrifice alongside a reflective posture. Loss and discipline. Remembering and celebrating. Perhaps you’ve come across people where their supposed sacrifice seems ho-hum, “I’m giving up salads!” I felt like I should loosen my hold of something that’s got hold of me. Something my friends recognize as my attachment. My wife’s loud guffaw when I told her I was giving up sleep let me know I was giving up the right thing.

Why sleep? I love my sleep. I have friends that enjoy sunrises. I don’t. Sunrises happen early in the morning when people should be sleeping. If I were on the show Survivor, giving up food would be a tertiary problem. What would ruin me would be giving up sleep. And coffee. The coffee which I need because I’m waking up---from sleep. It comes easy to me; in cars, on airplanes, in chairs and beds. I go to bed late and get up late. But not this season.

I’m not the watchman waiting for the morning, but I’ve been surprised to find a richness in rising earlier. My own voice encourages me to rise up saying, “It’s Lent!”. There’s been no mystical experience, no deep insights into Christ’s suffering. Nothing earth-shaking at all really. There has been this; a settling quiet. A peculiar calm as I sit at my desk drinking my coffee and reading my books. Beneath all that is an expectancy for Easter, the most earth-shaking of events preceding the raising of Christ, the First-fruits of those who are asleep!

Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash

When The Poem Ends

At very first glance, her beauty slays,

She’s there in the flesh, not a vapor,

Pulse revs up and breath gives way,

As you put pen to paper.

Every line a work of art,

Every word has you stirring,

Oh the joy I feel in my heart,

With every rhyme that’s occurring.

 

Happy days of cheese and wine,

Sweet chocolate and red rose,

All things come to the end of their time,

As poet writes their last prose.

 

Rapture gone that once was mine,

Your lips no longer ignite,

Darling we’ve reached the end of our line,

No more words to rhyme or write.

Radical Hospitality

 

 A hotel stay in California during the Pandemic was far worse than staying home. It was more like paying your neighbor hundreds of dollars to sleep in his garage. You had no access to food, kitchen or coffee. Amenities disappeared. Hoteliers, to protect housekeeping staff from germs, only had them enter your room days after your stay. One favorite aspect of vacation was now ruined. Hospitality, a word once associated with the industry, had lost meaning. It was in the midst of this dark time for travel that my wife and I experienced a most memorable inn experience.

Though strangers, The Lancaster hotel greeted us as friends returning from a journey. Our California experience was insipid and antiseptic. Here we were welcomed with champagne in fluted crystal glasses accompanied by macaroons. We were shown through halls of beautiful paintings and sculptures to our room. Tiled, Romanesque and beautiful. The most comfortable bed ever slept in. Fluffy robes and slippers.  After all of it, the next morning, the hotel manager granted us a choice. Though most eating establishments still required outdoor seating, we could have breakfast inside! Not on Styrofoam or paper but porcelain. Hoorah, Houston! That’s how you celebrate hospitality.

Hospitality is a core biblical principal, taking care of orphans, widows and strangers without neglect. Andi Ashworth models this beautifully in her life. “But if you can latch on to the truth that caring for human life is a very powerful work that actually changes the shape of people’s lives and the way they experience the world, you will have a vision that can hold you even in the midst of dismissive cultural attitudes.”

Porches are now built in the backyard and not the front yard because we no longer celebrate community. Hospitality is a radical lifestyle that moves your “porch” back to the front yard and invites neighbors into your life. It’s exciting, cruciform, giving and scary. They could break that mug your daughter gave you! Steal your silverware! I’m set in my ways and rhythms, and inviting people into my day can disrupt my “precious’ plans.

Can I share one more story? My wife and I had invited this single guy over for dinner. During the meal, nearly weeping, he thanked us for the invite. He generally ate alone, and nobody had invited him to share at their table!

This conviviality is an invitation to the great table. The hosts breaking of bread with us during Covid was gracious and risky. In an age of safe spaces and selfies, us and them, pandemics and phobias, hospitality risks it all.

I Am A Romantic

 Fifteen year old boys hardly believe in monsters. That year, in the northwest, Sasquatch stories were on everyone’s lips. The three of us were on a short walk, a familiar trip to the spring. A large wooden cask, brown and covered on the outside with lime-green mildew. You could feel the moisture, smell the wet earth, see the beads of water leaking out, the glint of big yellow slugs feeding even as they produced their own slime. Shadows increased. Panic intensified as the sun slowly disappeared. The obvious trail back to our trailer was hidden to us. Yards from us, something cracked. A breaking. Dry sticks stepped on. A bone broken?

I am a romantic. I cry during Romcoms (though denying it vehemently). My copy of A Severe Mercy is yellowed and dog-eared. I believe in true love. My wife and I have “As you wish” stamped on the inside of our wedding rings. Deep down I believe Hobbits are real. Elves too. In a world where men are beheaded and burned at the stake for professing a risen Christ, dragons are possible and less horrific. Monsters exist.

This is why I tear up at even a basic Hallmark movie. I want that girls’ berry farm to survive! Her prince must save her! I hate murky, grey endings. Evil must be quashed. That is how the world is supposed to work! And it did, once, before the slithering monster came. And it will again. Every love story should end “happily ever after.” Dragons slayed, evil sorcerers getting their just reward. True kings crowned, friends safely celebrating.

The panic rose and rose. Though a stones’ throw from home, in a secluded forest. Where monsters don’t exist. Did the way home open up (magically), were our friends’ voices suddenly heard in the distance? Did evil just retreat? A short walk and we were home.

“We have to feel the universe at once as an ogre’s castle, to be stormed, and yet as our own cottage, to which we can return at evening.” (Chesterton)

Photo by Ravit Sages on Unsplash

For Her And Texas... A Love Poem

 I told my wife I’d write her a love poem. This isn’t that. Not quite.

“The Lone Star state?” I asked my wife,

Leave roots, friends, your ocean blue?
The answer same as long ago,
“Wherever you go I’ll go with you.”
Babe, in all the world, you are my nexus,
My one delight, but so is Texas.

When mind and heart are a jumbled mess,
The world going up in smoke,
I rest within your beauty,
Spread below a canopy of Oak.

Arctic blast meets warm Gulf wind,
Tornado warnings cresting,
Hot or cold what will I find?
Most days I’m always guessing.

You are quite the humdinger,
All that and a bag of chips,
Respectfully giving the finger,
With a “Bless you” on your lips.

I delight in that twinkle in your eyes,
The smile upon your lip,
Bluebonnets bursting forth at every rise,
On every curb-side strip.