Life with Tinted Glasses

I sat with my coffee and marveled at the amazing pinks and purples of the sunset. It was soft and glowed with warmth.  Later, I drove through the prairie and again, marveled at the intense greens and clouds vivid against the deep blue sky.

Wait, the sunset looks different over through this window. And when I tip down my sunglasses to check the radio, lo and behold, the scenery changes. Hey, life does look better through rose colored glasses!

The previous owner of my new home was unduly concerned that someone might peek in the windows- windows that face prairie and the nearest neighbor a quarter of a mile away.  So she paid big bucks to have the windows professionally coated. Coated with expensive film so the interior is obscured. Now the summer sun is also blocked so it does serve a purpose.  Or did. 

It was also purple. Now, was it purple by design or did it change with age? Would anyone really chose to have purple tinted windows, hence a purple tinted house?  Not me!  Luckily, there was just a bit coming loose by the edge, just calling to be tugged at. Whoop- it pulls right off. Well, not in one nice piece. In fact, it took several fingernails, then razor blades, and finally razor blades AND  a hair dryer set on high andwe finally pull off the last offending strips.  A sledge hammer was the next tool in my arsenal.  You know, once you start that sort of project it looks like a mess until you figure out how to finish it.

So now I have a beautiful window that lets in plenty of GOLDEN light. The wood is warm, ok, almost orange but at least it’s natural. Purple wood is not natural.  And the adjacent window is begging to be peeled.  I’ll skip the fingernails and go right for the blow torch, I mean hairdryer and a fresh razor blade.

And my sunglasses give the world just the nicest golden glow.  The colors are just more vivid, the contrast stronger. The world is a more beautiful place.

So do we have tinted glass to view the real world,  not the world of mountains and plains, but the world of people and circumstances? Of spirit and soul.  I thought as I sat and compared purple and golden. Yes, I will miss my purple sunrises.  Maybe I’ll try sunglasses.

But what I really want to recognize the tint I put on my world.  Does bitterness sometimes cloud my vision?  Do my misperceptions color the reality that is before me?  We’ve all met people with a black cloud over their lives. They live life in lack and need.  We can become attached to our vision, to the tint that becomes normal to us.  We lose sight of the fact that wood should not be purple. Pull off that film.  Let the sunshine in!

I really want to view my world with the tint, the attitude of kindness and tolerance. With mercy and grace.  Can I see the beauty in the faces of those I love? I can if chose to “put on the new self, being created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness”.

Righteousness- being made in right standing with God; standing right with God, seeing with His eyes. 

Holiness-  sanctified, made like Him, seeing like Him. 

His eyes see the world, our fallen world with love. He sees us as we are meant to be, as we are becoming, as we will be.  He sees perfection and He delights in us; He rejoices over us with love.

And because of Him, I want to see the world through the tint of love.

Easter in the Heart of the Hills

Easter

It’s Saturday of the Easter week and some years, I do contemplate the hours of Christ in the tomb.  This year, my chest feels like a tomb and I’m a bit self-absorbed.  I can read but not think.

But I’m in the Heartland of America. There are notices of church services in prominent places at the market and post office.  Hotels advertise EASTER brunch. Not holiday or weekend, EASTER.   The only grocery store has Happy Easter on the front door- so it’s the Easter bunny, not the Risen Savior but no one’s offended by the reference to a clearly religious event. A Christian religious event.

Then I looked over one of the local attraction brochures for the Black Hills. In the Custer section, the town central to the Southern Black Hills, are listed - Attractions, Banks, Churches, Convenience Stores...  The merchants or churches obviously write their own blurbs and you can chose between “Please join us for worship at Custer Elementary School… use the northwest door.” or “Mountainview Baptist… obeying the words of Christ in Mathew 28:18-20.” or Vineyard Black Hills, “My wife Rose and I desire to serve Custer in the area of hospitality, music, ministry, healing, spiritual brokenness, community unity and provide a place of worship and spiritual growth in Jesus Christ.”  There- Jesus.  Right in print, in a vacation guide. Love it.

I was given a Hill City phone book today. “Hill City – The Heart of the Hills”     All aboard Hill City- “A community building unity between residents, businesses, churches and civic organizations.” 

Unity. It’s what He spent these hours in the grave to accomplish. Unity between us and the Father. Unity between each other.  Unity between residents, churches and civic organizations.  I like that.  

Welcome, Risen Savior, welcome to Hill City, South Dakota, the Heart of the Hills.  

Sick and TIred

Reality hit. I’m no longer 25 or even 35.  Months of emotional toil, physical labor and lots of driving and I’m the college student home for the break- as soon as it’s safe to let down, the body’s defenses do and here I am.

“Oh, there’s lots of that going around. … “ and gruesome details follow. But it’s all in a friendly “we’re all in this together” attitude.  Yes, Mother, I did go out today but not to Rapid.  Just to town.   Town being Hill City and a mere ten miles and fifteen minutes; cell phone coverage picks up about half way unless you’re with AT&T and then it’s spotty, even in town.  Rapid of course is Rapid City and a lovely little city it is, too.

But Hill City (which is not a city, merely a town) has it’s own charm especially before the tourists descend. It has developed quite a reputation for the arts and has a busy schedule that the friendly woman at the visitor center was eager to share, “But you really should take care of that cough, there’s a lot of that going around.”

The post office closes at 10:30 on Saturday so I couldn’t show my ID and get a new box assigned me. Number 401 is on the top row and my brother’s right- I can’t see into it or even get my arm in there.  I’ve driven past several times without realizing that’s the post office so maybe if I’m feeling better on Monday, I’ll try again.  I haven’t had a post office box since college, the one in Italy didn’t count because it was on base and Bill always checked the mail. This one is all mine. And empty. I think.

I wandered down the back street- yep, there’s a Main Street and Railroad Street. It parallels the 1890 narrow gauge tracks for the vintage, remove steam trains that haul visitors through the Black Hills.   I have no idea what remove steam means but the train winds through classic Western film scenery and the last time I rode, I nursed a child the entire two hours.  Lesson to young families, do what YOU want to do – neither son remembers the 1890 train ride OR Wind Cave.  And yes, you can nurse a baby all the way through a cave tour. With a young and cute national park guide.  I remember feeling old. Ha!

Hill City does have a few side streets but the action takes place on Main or Railroad, also known as the Bypass. The train’s summer season start May 2^nd so today’s big event is the Senior Center Rummage Sale.  I buy some stuff I probably don’t need, find a find in the freebie box- do these people not know what treasure that cracked pottery is?  The cough syrup is clearly going to my head. 

By now, my head is aching, my back is stiff and I have to get out of public but my whole trip was to satisfy a craving for my own chicken soup. The proven cure for all ailments.  I wandered the aisles of Krull’s market, pronounced “krols- long o”.  I guess cruel’s market has a less marketable sound. It has an adequate produce section and I find two kinds of fresh garlic- one clearly labeled, “Product of China”. Nice to know.  I buy the other, more expensive one. The one made in the USA.  I find sweet onions, chicken, salt- I go for the Morton’s at 88 cents so I don’t look like a complete tourista paying $2.68 for sea salt.  Note to self, bring a big bag of sea salt from Trader Joes’ or at least from Rapid City.  The closest Trader Joe’s is in Chicago or maybe Minneapolis.  Who knows-without internet I am factless.  But it is a LONG way away. Very sad.

I sit in the parking lot in the sun and clear off the messages on my cell phone. I make a couple of calls but I am fading fast and still need to drive home.  My soup calls.

So now, I’ve smashed garlic, caramelized onions, snapped off the ends of the Easter dinner asparagus and added them with some chopped celery and carrots.  I deboned chicken and saved the meat for a real meal,  tossed all the skin and fat into the veggies  and made a killer soup.  I napped, then drank soup all day and read the final chapter of James Michener’s Iberia. 

 I have read and reread his small discussion on education. He was college professor at one time and advocated an in-depth study of a narrow slice of history across cultures. It’s on page 144 and 145 if you want to read about it but Michener’s preferred time frame would be the 1530’s when Spain was the force to be reckoned with in Europe.  He was quite enamored with all things Spanish. I curled up with my endless cups of broth and plotted a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela with Mr. Michener as my guide.

The day ended as well as could be expected.  I’m still sick but the house is full of the smells of chicken soup, my brother stuck his head it to make sure I was still alive and I decided to have decaf and a biscotti for dinner. Make it two.  I’m sick. 

Passing Through

I don't want to leave this place. To return to more packing, more sorting. It's embarrassing how much stuff I have here and yet, I know there is this much again at "home". An embarrassment of riches.  I don't want to think about it.  I like to being disconnected. I like cocooning. I like wandering in this snug log house and nesting. I like waking to a ever-changing prairie and fresh snow.  I like being in the middle of nowhere. 

I want to go home. I can't believe how much I rely on the internet. I want to have access to information. I want my cell phone to work.  I want to drop into to Donna's for tea or go up the hill to Maureen. I want to cook for Michael and Trinty and hug their sweet kids. I want to go to my church and see my peeps.  I want to call a dozen people and have lunch.  At an Indian or Thai restaurant. Close to my house.  I want spring with my bulbs and my blooming azaleas . My garden is changing, perennials poking through with promise of purples and blues,  the trees unfurling into a million shades of green.  I want my white walls, I want my art. I want my deck with its pouring fountain, memories of meals, laughter, dancing. 

I want comfort.  I'm in the desert, on the edge of the promise land and I want Egypt.  I long for the leeks and onions of captivity.  At least I knew how to cook them, how to make the best of that life. I knew my place, my roles, my purpose. 

But did I? Remember, remember…  Why did I leave? It wasn't slavery, was it? Or was I a slave in a way? A good way?  A faithful contributor to my church, my community.  A competant keeper of a lovely house, perfect for hospitality.  A gardener with a yard  of flowers and flat space for bocce games. I added beauty to my given corner.   Slavery is a harsh term for my roles, my life.

But yet, I was a  slave. I was bound to my expectations of life itself.  Buy a house, keep the house; get a job, commute; marry and grow old together.  I was a slave to my expectations of myself. Keep busy, find more projects, learn a new skill, get a job, run an event, do, do, do.   Slavery doesn't have to be physical or even destructive- it just has to capture you, distract you from the bigger picture and a new purpose, keep you bound in what is safe and secure. 

My security is Jesus. In Psalm 8, the psalmist marvels, "What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?" Visitest.  Now we use the word care - "What is man that you are mindful of him and you care for him."  I like visitest- He visits us. He comes into our world and visits with us.  Shares our life. Sits at our table. Sleeps in our beds. Enters into our day. He visits me. It implies He came from somewhere.  When you visit, you have a home to return to. 

Our Christian language refers to Christ as "living in our hearts" and He "makes His home in our hearts".  He's "my Savior". He's "mine". 

No, He's not mine. I am His.  He is visiting me, in lonely exile here. He is not home here, I am not home. The earth groans, we wait with anticipation to be HOME.  He is just visiting. 

And now we, we who claim to be His,  are just visiting.  Visiting, passing through.

There are forces of nature that pass through and leave no trace. Fog 

 Others pass through and wreak havoc. Hurricanes, tornados. 

  Some pass through and bring great benefit. Spring rains for the wheat, a dormant winter for rest.   

Either way, life is  changed. 

Even the fog that leaves no trace brought confusion as it passed.  

 Hurricanes, tornados flatten towns, rip trees from their century old roots, change the course of a river.  

The cycles of springtime and harvest reflect the passing seasons. 

And there are people who pass through and leave no trace.   " … oh, I can't even remember her face".  It's confusion.   

Some people pass through life  family and relationships, churches and jobs  wreaking havoc. They bring pain, they haul bitterness like a ripped garbage bag, leaving a trail a dirty trail of  cast off, thrown away, broken. 

Others touch our lives forever. They are sweet rain to our soul. They nourish and protect. They rejoice in the harvest in our lives. 

  Either way, life is  changed.   

Jesus came and visited earth.  He passed through. He brought healing, forgiveness, freedom, sight to the blind, ears to the deaf. A year of jubilee. 

"The Spirit of the Lord is on me,

because he has anointed me

to preach good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind,

to release the oppressed,

To PROCLAIM the year of the Lord's FAVOR."

He passed through and Life was changed. 

He is still passing through, life is still being changed. He visits us.  His presence infuses those who are fragile, vulnerable, open.  

And we in turn, carry in us His Spirit as we pass through our time, our space.  I don't want to be fog. I don't want to be a tornado.  I want to be the sweet gentle rain of grace, the fresh wind of mercy, the strong light of encouragement. 

 "Do this in remembrance of  me."  We remember Him, His visit, His sacrifice. 

  I, too, want to be remembered.  I want to be remembered as a changed life, as a tribute to the One who came to visit me.  I the freedom to be content in this promise land, in this new garden but I am a fragile transplant.  

Fragile, vulnerable….open? Open to change? Open to Jesus? 

Yes, Lord, yes. For I am just passing through. 

Driving in a winter wonder land… or April in the Black Hills

.

The roads are wet but not slick. The city recedes behind me. I wind through the hills and turn at the junction that takes me to my cabin on the edge of the prairie.  I listen to NPR and an interview with Annie Lamott, remembering her latest book. I love her writing. Her spare use of words draws you in. She speaks with the same careful precision in a low, eloquent voice. National Public Radio, the bastion of all things to the left of center, broadcasts her thoughtful insights on Lent, on sacrifice, on quieting your spirit to receive, on repentance.  I smile. I love Annie Lamott. Her faith looks different from mine. But she's on national radio honoring Our Lord. 

I head up the last narrow stretch,  the evergreen trees crowding the the road.    I'm forced to slow down.  My vehicle and my heart.  The beauty makes me gasp. 

 The road was cut from the rock, craggy shale rock- all blacks, grays, and brown layers glistening wet. Wet black dirt borders the gray road.  Dark pine trees are heavy with spring snow, snow stark in contrast. The upright branches of the smaller deciduous trees are delicately outlined. Like lace or a perfect arterial system, stark, white, perfect.  The sky is gauze, the light is flat. Impossible to capture with my camera but my eye drinks in the depth, the intricacy, the indescribable beauty of this moment. A glimpse of beauty.  A memory to tuck away, to savor, to slow down for. 

I leave the narrow canyon behind and slide into the open prairie land that forms the edge of the hills. The edge, the change.  The big open sky embraces the land stretched before it. Pale gold  heads of last year's grass the only wisp of color in the fading light, in my world of grays and whites.  Rising above the new fallen snow, the amber flags wave softly, catch the final light of the day. A reminder of life to return, in due time.

I turn and crunch up the gravel mile of Paradise. A flock of turkeys cross in front of me, plumb dark bodies against the snow. At the curve and through the fading light, I see the  sentinels line of log fence poles, waiting for me like friendly soldiers, guards. Someone has turned on a light. 

I am home. 

South Dakota- Coming Home

I wander through this house, new and essentially strange to me.   I've  walked through it a few times. Yes, I purchased it. 

  I took pictures and captured what it looked like.  I knew it belonged to me.  But tonight I wander and delight over every hint     of "mine" that I see here in this new space.  

My world has been fragmented. 

Torn apart- partly by circumstances - death, graduations, weddings ; change, both heartbreaking and life affirming. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Joy and sorrow flow mingled down. 

 My world has been fragmented because I have chosen to tear it apart.

I dismantled my house, my physical structure. I gave away my furniture, his tools, our appliances.  I sorted  books and files, paperwork and office supplies, recipe cards and outdated appliance manuals. I pulled the hard drive out of the old PC and I carry it like a child. It contains precious photos and worthless files and who knows what. I must learn to extract and transfer essentials  to a slim, elegant, and totally foreign Mac.  Clearly I am not done dismantling and recreating. 

In my old space, I considered mementos of a life well lived and yet, in a way, over, finished.  I am no longer a suburban housewife with a two car garage, a commuting husband, four busy children with busy schedules.  There are no more soccer games to dash to, no archery matches, piano recitals or rabbit shows. No cross country races to wait through.  No muddy boots, no meals around the table, no bedtime stories or homework or talks into the night.  There's no marriage with it's joys and sorrows.

I flung clothes to the floor and picked out what I loved, what seemed to fit  … with what?  for whom?  Who will wear business casual? Who will wear party clothes and elegant formals?  Who will fit into that size or that shape?  Who am I? 

Yet, today as I wander this log house- foreign in appearance to my former home, I find pieces of me.  I find evidence of a loving son who unpacked a truck and set up this house, naturally starting with the library.   I sit surrounded. Favorite books fill familiar bookcases. The children's classics low to the floor, my late father-in-law's  Zane Grey paperbacks up high.  The hopelessly outdated World Book encyclopedia that no one wanted to part with.  We love books. 

I sit on a hand-me-down couch but I snuggle under the afghan knit by my mother for my wedding. The cheerful, red and blueTurkish rug warms the floor as it did in another space. There is a small, familiar watercolor of western mountains.  I drink warm, sweet chai from a colorful mug bought in Italy. 

I am home. 

Is this a foretaste of heaven?  Will we womeday wander streets of gold and marvel at the small delights that have been prepared for us?  

Will we recognize with pure and holy vision the tokens of a life well lived that have been accumulated for us?     Displayed  to welcome us home?

Here in this home,  I am alone. 

  Heaven will be a place to connect with all those we love, all who live in Jesus. To be in complete and perfect fellowship to worship together at the throne.      

                                                

                                                                                There will be laughter, sharing of joy and  life, life eternal.  

And here in this home, in this life,  I am not alone. 

        I drove up to the cabin, snug and secure  in the snowy twilight.       Before I was out of my truck,  my brother's car crunched down his driveway and across  the road to mine. His dog, the joyful announcer of visitors, guests, homecoming family, had barked his customary notification.   My brother showed me the mechanics of the house.  Invited me to come up to his house.  He was expecting me, watching for my arrival. 

As we enjoyed a unexpected meal together, 

we laughed and shared in joy and life, life eternal. 

This brother of mine. This gruff, matter of fact man, who now laughs easily and has aged to fit into his own skin.  This man, this brother of mine. 

We hated each other as children.  We fought. WIth sharp objects.  I sabotaged him in big and small ways.  He teased me to tears. Hot, salty tears of rage and frustration.  I was the student, the teacher's pet.  He was Dennis the Menace.  Hyperactivity and attention deficit were not a ticket to a diagnosis but to a whipping, to frustration.  I washed dishes and whined.  He milked cows, shoveled manure, picked fights. 

I went to college. He returned to the only place he wanted to be- a long way from home.  I had babies;  he got a divorce.  A nasty divorce.  I battled my demons;  he battled his.  We tolerated each other at  family events.  Barely.  He teased me to tears, I mocked his life in my head.  I lived in North Carolina , Japan,  Italy ; he remained isolated in Alaska.  

Working in rough jobs, becoming a rough man. 

Heaven will be full of people. Rough people.  People who hated their brothers and hurt their sisters.  People who ran away and people who wanted to.  People who were misunderstood -  those who appeared to doing all the right things and those who obviously lived on the edge of acceptable, misunderstood. People who live in isolation.  People who learned easily and people who made mistakes, over and over.  People who teased and people who cried at the frustration of life and pain of the the grit that wears at your joy.  

Heaven will be the great  and holy meeting of people. Coming home to Family

             And we'll be welcomed home- heralded by heavenly trumpets not the bark of a friendly dog. 

He's expecting us, He's watching for our arrival. 

      There we'll forget the trials and toils along the path that led us home;

but here we must chose to forget. 

Chose to forgive. 

Chose to bring heaven down to earth.

Years ago as I staggered through depression, a wise counselor asked, " Tell me about your family.  Do you have siblings?"  Eventually the years of frustration, the remembered grievances, the contempt poured out of me.  I was so wronged, he was such a jerk.  I was so angry.  Why had our parents let him get away with it?   In the silence that followed,  he asked softly, "Can you forgive? Forgive him for the hurts?  Forgive yourself for making him miserable? Forgive your parents for not seeing everything? Can you release him?"  

I wrestled.  He didn't deserve grace. He didn't ask for forgiveness. He probably didn't know or care the extent of my anger and pain.  

Could I forgive?  Not merely tolerate for short finite occasions.  

                                                                          Forgive. Love. Release.  

It didn't seem fair.  Why should I have to be the one?  What about him?  After all these years, what was the point?  We lived far apart and that was fine.  Again, could I, would I forgive?  In skeptical obedience I began a  prayer project. It was cross stitch, the craft of the decade,  and I stabbed the needle in and out of the coarse fabric with gritted teeth and savage prayers.  "Fine, I forgive."   

But as the months passed , the state of Alaska emerged under my hands; the state of my heart softened and grace, mercy, yes, love emerged. 

               "Bless him.  Grant him favor. Let him forgive me. Love him, Lord"    Love and sorrow flowed mingled down. 

It wasn't an easy path to this now place of our hearts. He had years of pain, I had plenty of time to wonder. He rubbed me raw at the family visits. I wrestled to keep my heart at peace.    But slowly, I was released.  

 And now, today, we are here, in a foretaste of Heaven.  Never would I have imagined that I would be so glad to live across the road from that rough, angry man.  Who is no longer rough or angry. Who has fought his demons and come out with dignity and purpose.  Who has a life,  a loving wife, the respect of his community, the love of his family, a loyal dog.  

And  who has a grateful sister who borrowed his big, warm  boots and winter coat to peacefully trudge home after dinner to her home across the road. 

                                                    Reconciled, reconnected, in fellowship.

And someday we will be Home.  And we'll see what we've released and whom we've blessed.  Who has released

                         us and who has had our back in the hard times.  

              We'll sit with former  enemies and know peace. 

We will know face to face the One who extended mercy, grace, forgiveness , love when we did not deserve it.

  Who reconciled Himself to us. 

 And we will be grateful.

      Grateful for mercy poured out on us.  

           Grateful for grace we didn't deserve.

                Grateful for forgiveness that gives us a place at the eternal table. 

                          Grateful for Love that brought us Home.

The Route...

The Route of Kathryn and Clyde, the wonder truck.

Leaving Happy Creek in Manassas, Virginia , get on north VA 234, then west to US 66 to VA 522.  VA 522 is the first in several not so smart moves. The highways won't kill you. The backroads might. 

Driving through small Virginia towns and  familiar Virginia  scenery when you could be making time on US 81 is not necessary. You will also miss the bypass and drive through the heart of old, quaint Winchester with its narrow streets and tight turns. Breathe.

Get gas at Sheets. Trust me, Clyde, that's a very high overhand.  You won't bump your head.

North on VA 522 through Virginia apple orchards. Too early for blossoms. bummer.

Go through a lovely, quiet stretch of  a Piedmont valley to Berkley Springs, West Virginia. Also quaint but a straight shot, no turns.

Reluctantly join the real world and head west on US 69 to Morgantown, WVa.  and north on US 79 , bumping up into Pennsylvania, catching US 70 at Washington, PS;  dipping back  into West Virginia and exiting at Wheeling into Ohio. 

Here the trip begins to gain real character.  Miss the immediate exit for OH 250, a wide red road with the added appeal of green dots- indicating a scenic route.  The same route 250 that leads directly to your destination. 

Sail along until you realize your mistake, compound your mistake by exiting at St.Clairsville, misread the map, head west on OH 331, a small red road without the benefit of green dots or scenery. Correct your course at Piedmont and head EAST to find OH 250. Drive the aforementioned scenic highway and realize that you have actually driven this road before thus violating your personal principal of never traveling the same back road twice in the same decade. 

Realize you are low on fuel and there are no stations, no bathrooms, no nothing. Stop for relief at Uhrichsville - liquid in, liquid out. Regain cell coverage.  Talk to anxious realtor. Talk to calm son. Talk firmly to realtor. Be willing to walk away from deal on house. You actually gain backbone on back roads of Ohio. It must be the death defying meetings with the UPS trucks.  Call  Ohio friend  for directions.  

Home for tonight is downtown Canton, Ohio. But friend, who has a bold vision to reclaim downtown Canton, Ohio, also has a heart for his Amish past and a church in the countryside between Mount Eaton and Apple Valley. Countryside which is just as lovely as it sounds.  Listen to a teaching on stubbornness vs perseverance. Question backbone. 

Follow friend through the back country farm roads to Canton. Dear friend has left behind his horse and buggy days and has clearly never driven back country roads in the dark in a one ton truck and camper. Breathe. 

From Canton, ignore small demon voice calling you to drive back county roads. You did that within the decade, within the year. Make time on US 77 south to US 70.   Join the truckers and boogie west, skirting Columbus, Dayton and skip into Indiana.  Pause and reflect on number one son's years in Indiana at Taylor University. He really was a long way from home.  

Consider calling friend in Indianapolis and staying the night. Decide to make time and distance. Misunderstand directions from dear daughter, miss turn from US 70 onto US 65 NORTH. Head south on US 65to stay on US 70. Ignore signs for road construction. Hit road construction.  Defy death or at least plowing into double jersey walls. Which are much closer to Clyde than to a small Prius. Again, miss US 465/ 74 NORTH.  Head EAST. Hit massive traffic.  Miss first exit. Cross White River, poke behind trucks, get cut off by cheeky little cars, take the same congested exit as everyone else.  Find gas. Remember to use diesel. Dance with the big trucks in the congested intersection of IN 37 and US 475/ 74. Turn around.  Head WEST on same US 74.  Ignore US 70 west. Pass familiar intersections with more double jersey walls.  Reconsider calling friend.  Push on.

Take US 74 WEST to Danville, Illinois. Why? Because it's over the border and it's all about conquering at least one, preferably two states a day. This is not a pleasure trip.  This is a mission. And then find out the next day that another old friend lives an hour south of Danville and would have loved to host me. Check address book before departing on mission. Danville does have a very nice Marriott Fairfield Inn. Marriott takes my military ID without asking for my orders. Good thing. No orders. 

Drive west on US 74 through rain and drizzle. Fix flapping hatch on camper. Freeze. Spring time in the Midwest. Pass through Bloomington, Illinois and think of son-in-law's sister. Maybe someday I will feel comfortable inviting myself for a visit. Press on the Quad cities of Moline, Rock Island, and Davenport. OK- I've heard it called the Quad cities but I've never heard of bettendorf, Indiana. 

If you have to drive through Indiana, Illinois, AND Iowa in one trip, I  highly recommend a book on tape. I enjoyed Anne Lamott's Imperfect Birds. Perfect melancholy book for a perfectly melancholy day. But I did cross  two full states and made it into a third.  At Souix City, Iowa, head north on US 29.  You are now in South Dakota. South Dakota at night looks very much like Iowa at night. 

Lose mind in Vermillion, SD. Head west on SD 50. Pass last fuel station for thirty miles.  Give up in Yankton, SD. Find very nice Comfort Inn. The only nice Comfort Inn in Yankton, South Dakota. And clearly, the hot spot for Saturday night revelry in Yankton, South Dakota. Sleep four hours.  Revelers in Yankton, South Dakota are hardy stock.  Up at the crack of dawn. 

Ignore voice of reason and continue west on SD 50.  Make wrong turn at Wagner, drive to Delmont, retrace steps ( another travel violation but I am giving myself some slack- sleep deprivation). Find route to Fort Randall Dam that late father-in-law helped build with the Conservation Corps. Realize too late that we drove this way WITH him and I've been over the Fort Randal dam but it was more than two decades ago so I'm safe. 

Meander SD 18/ 183 through the border towns of South Dakota and Nebraska.  Wonder about the meth use in these grim little hamlets. Wonder at abandoned houses and barns.  Wonder at my choice of scenic routes. 

Decide I've had my fill of scenic roads and skip the Rosebud Indian Reservation,  head north at SD 83 to US 90 WEST. Call mother at Vivian, SD. Assure her I'm within two hours or so. She goes to a concert.  I have a relapse and head south on SD 377 to SD 44 through the heart of the Badlands. Which are eerie in the flat afternoon light.  But my madness is vindicated when the clouds part and the rolling hills of the Buffalo Gap grasslands light up like spun gold and the massive cottonwood along the creek bottoms stretch in supplication to a wild western sky.  Back roads are great.  Especially ones so empty you can do three point turnarounds.  My goal is to spend a day in the grasslands and watch the light change and take photos until my memory is full. 

After SD 44 connects to US 90, follow mother's advice and take southern roads to avoid Rapid City traffic.  Remind mother of massive construction on southern roads, including removing most of the road and the guard rail. Ignore another fuel stop since the gauge assures you of a thirty mile range.  Remember too late that you have no idea where diesel fuel is sold in Rapid City, SD.  Park truck on a slope at mother's home. Run out of fuel. 

You have arrived. 

The nicest people..

It's dark outside, I'm wide awake and clearly the rest of the world is not. 

Not that I would know what the rest of the world is doing. I gaze out my nearest windows and I see no lights, no houses, no sign of people in any direction.  The luminous full moon beams through thin clouds and bathes cool, blue light on snow draped pine boughs - I'm inside a soft, gauzy Christmas card.    Sleep is overrated.  

The trip is over but the journey still moves me forward. The adventure is just beginning.

Earlier I blogged / moaned about still being in a hurry.

There is nothing like spending time with your 80+ year old mother to slow you down. It's good.  She puttered; I puttered. We had a lovely breakfast and read her devotionals. We discussed our plans. She went down the hall for morning coffee and chitchat; I tried to write. I lost much of what I wrote.  I went to coffee, my mother's face lighting up, "Get some coffee and come sit here. This is my daughter. She just drove in from Virginia."  It's lovely to be with her.
                                                                                        It's slowing my spirit. 

But still, much to be done. Places to go, people to see, things to buy, papers to fax. 

And Clyde, the wonder truck, is definitely out of gas, well, technically he's out of diesel. 

      "I knew that would be a problem if you parked it downhill like that." Really? Who knew? Why wasn't I told this before now? Is there a manual?  Well, probably. 

    And I remember yesterday's small Whisper,
             "You're getting low. There's diesel at that station. You should stop."  

No, I was in a hurry. I wanted to get on to the other side of town. I thought it was just low.  I was certain of the location of another gas station.

          I, I, I…. I know squat about trucks or Rapid City. sigh.

If you run out of gas, it's best to do it in the parking lot of your mother's condo. Especially when she has just bought a new car with a second car to loan you.  

Leaving behind my gas/diesel guzzling beast, I run errands in a zippy little toy car. How fun it this?  Popping in and out of parking lots, turning on a dime, changing lanes without a football field of clearance. ahh… fun stuff. 

Even if it's 35 degrees. And drifting between drizzle and sleet and flurries. Overcast. This is April? Not a good day to judge Rapid City.
                                              Why do people live here? 

Well, there is no traffic. Really, Mom, there is no traffic. Trust me.  There is decent shopping- there's also no other place to shop within 200 miles. The closest Ikea is presently in Minneapolis, soon coming to Parker, Colorado. Check out the mileage. 

The Safeway does have lovely turkey pesto wraps and killer kifer drink. Peach. 

And there are the nicest people here.  

With great patience, the nice gal at the Ace hardware store demonstrates the most complicated gas nozzle mechanism ever. On a plastic gas can. 

         I do love hardware stores.  You can find everything in a good hardware store and Rapid City has several.      These are people who know how to fix things.        Nice people.

The nice lady at the Sinclair gas station checks Clyde's height and steers me away from her overhang. Hate to take off her roof or my air conditioner. I fill the world's most complicated gas can with two gallons of diesel, carry the smelly, messy container back to Clyde in my mother's clean, zippy little car. There's nothing in her back seat. Even on the floor. sigh  She's a nice people. 

    Two and  a half gallons of fuel is more awkward to wrestle than you might think. Especially when the gas tank fill up spot is sharing space with camper tie downs rod thingys. At chest level. 

      Especially with the world's most complicated, "will-not-spill" mechanism. It is very easy to suddenly have the floppy plastic fill hose gone. Gone. Down into the fuel tank. To disappear into the abyss of Clyde's tummy.          I'm sure this happens all the time.

I am not sure, at all.  I'm panicked.       It's cold and wet and someone else, some responsible grown up should be doing this stupid, dirty task.        I have roadside assist. Why didn't I call?        I have just dropped a big piece of plastic inside the fuel tank of my new truck.                 My expensive new truck. 

                                   I'm an idiot.

I call my brother and talk to his nice wife.  Hopefully the little hose will just jiggle around in Clyde's tummy, right? It can't be sucked into the engine, can it?  

        "But you know you can't let a diesel run out of gas.  It'll have to be towed and have the fuel pump primed." Really?  Who knew? Clearly not me. Why wasn't I told this like she was told?  

                 Oh, yeah… the whole manual thing.   sigh.               She's nice people, too.

   

Clyde ignores my meager fuel offering and refuses to start. How much DOE$ it cost to tow a one ton truck WITH camper?     I need another fill hose, maybe a real funnel?    Back to the Sinclair and Daniel's service station next door. Or maybe it's Doug's- it's a D name and it's on Jackson Blvd.
           He has a BIG tow truck. He's  also a very nice man. He has a BIG funnel.

         "The hose shouldn't be a problem. Add some more diesel. Try this funnel.  Bring it back when you're done."                Clearly nice people trust each other here AND fix things themselves. 

I return in Zippy with gas for Piggy and I have left Clyde's fuel lid off, open for bad people to pour sugar or salt or GAS into Clyde. I am paranoid. Breathe. 
       I pour more gas into Clyde- well, again actually not gas. But all fuel is still gas to me. I do use diesel. I checked the receipt. Twice. Let's not make three stupid mistakes in one afternoon.
         I load my morning purchases into Clyde's ever bulging back seat. I need to get out to my cabin and unload this beast. It's snowing, it's late afternoon. I need to accomplish something.
        This adventure is not nearly as simple or funny to live as it is to write about. My hands are freezing. My little April jacket is thin and wet.    My feet are wet.       I bet I have wet, stringy hair. I refuse to look. 

I pray my new favorite prayer. "Lord, give me Favor or give me Grace." 

Clyde takes a big drink and after an anxious moment, roars to life.
                  Back at the Sinclair I fill him up, way up but no little plastic hose floats out. I return the funnel. I take an orange business card. Doug or Daniel assures me Clyde's fine. 
                 I head into the muck.  My brother calls to tell me to be careful, it's 29 degrees out there and the road may be slick.

        It's five o'clock in the largest city within 200 miles. There are a handful of cars  and they pull back and let me merge.
                
                       Wave me in, in front of them.      They'll wait.       They are the nicest people. 

I'm HERE!

Well, this is irritating!  I just erased several hours of the most FABULOUS writing the world has ever seen.   Or at least  that have been written on my blog.  I hate that ....

Why can't you recall all the words you just composed? Where do those clever sentences go to die if not in your brain somewhere?  Should I be composing in Word... would it still be a blog?  Aren't you supposed to just jot down pithy observations? In short bites.  I do not blog... I wander and meander and stammer through the written English language.  Thanks for hanging in with me. You missed some great sentences. sigh....


I have answered my own rhetorical question- what DO you do in Yankton, SD?.  Turns out Yankton is the of Cow Capital of South Dakota.  I love cows. My daddy was a dairy farm.

THIS is a cow!  

Bessie, the All American COW! 

South Dakota has a variety of climates. The Eastern side is enjoying an extended winter. ha!

Clyde does not mind the snow. Clyde has four wheel drive. 

Abandoned Houses 

I love old abandoned houses.  They speak in sad whispers of families who have moved on, dreams that have ended and land  slowly returning to prairie.  Why would anyone love that sadness?   Maybe I like thinking of the lives that were lived in those places. Maybe the families moved out to nicer, more modern homes.  Maybe the children moved their parents out of the old homesteads into warm,  safe homes.  The storyteller in me just wonders.... 

I love old barns even more than old houses.... I want a barn someday.

 Pensive Musings from a gray Day

As I drove across the plains on a cold, gray day, I was more pensive than funny.  I drove on back roads and through small towns.  A grim small world. When you don't know what you're missing, are you more content with your world?  Was life easier when you couldn't connect to the outside world?   Do kids in rural South Dakota watch HBO and wonder what life is like outside Bonesteel, South Dakota? A generation ago you just followed in your father's footsteps or married the boy who kissed you in junior high. Life may have seemed small but you knew you had a place in your community. But clearly from all the abandoned houses I could have spent hours photographing,  community in eastern South Dakota has seen plenty of changes.

So how do we live content in the world where God places us? Should we resist exposure to the world by what we watch, what we google, what we long for?  Or should we break free of the small world that confines us, that we think is keeping us from God's "big plan" for our lives?  What about the community we live in or leave behind? Who will show them Jesus with skin on?  He's our example and lived simply and seemed to spend most of his adulthood wandering around his small world.


Today all I know  is that life is a larger banquet than I ever thought. Life works for different people in different ways.   Life has seasons that change and I am learning to accept those changes.


       If I sense God's call to leave and wander and you sense His call to stay and "bloom" - we, members of the Body of Christ, are all called to be His light in our worlds.  And we can all chose to be content. Chose to be grateful for the blessings on the way. Chose to recognize His hand in each day and each mile.  Chose to be Light whether you are wandering or not. 

Light

I love light.   I love light glinting on water or filtering through baby green, spring branches.
               I love the way it reveals the structure of trees in the winter.
                                    I love the afternoon light that makes the world glow.

I love the golden hills of western South Dakota. I feel so grounded and secure here. Who knew?

Day Three- Start with a fire alarm, end with a party- HOTELS!

OK- this is exactly why I bought a CAMPER.  Hotels are as bad as hospitals for restful nights.
First night, false fire alarm.  Second night, let's party at 2 am... AND get up at 7 am.   Is there nothing else to do in Yankton, South Dakota?  retorical question... I don't really want to know.

And for those who are following with bated breath- I DID write a post for day two.... I just didn't post it. SO today is BOGO. And you don't have to buy anything...

Highlights or What You've All Been Waiting For!

• Smart phones are fun. You can record messages to yourself.     So when you can't find a pen as you are driving down the road, you are forced to figure out Voice Memo function.                                 Ahh.... it is easy, Drew. 
• Heated lumbar support is God's gift to long distance drivers.
• The Midwest in soft afternoon light is lovely. So is Detroit or  Death Valley.  The Midwest in drizzle is boring. The Midwest is windy. Trucks driving into a head wind eat gas. And sway.

• When you go to a rest stop in a RV- even a relatively small truck camper RV, you get to park in giant trucker parking spaces.  My new goal is to never back up.

Clyde, the wonder Truck, is big.  Clyde is strong. Clyde is not afraid of UPS trucks. 

  Clyde does NOT want to meet this UPS truck on a back country road. 

• When you stop at icky Cracker Barrel for a book on "tape", you sometimes get an unexpected gift. My gift was the knowledge that my fabulous "I can escape out my over-the-cab queen size bed and lay on my roof"  escape hatch broke and was flapping in the considerable Midwest wind.  But even in the light rain, nothing inside was wet yet.  OK... my first repair. 

• Travel Plazas for truck drivers have really nice mechanics and they have all sorts of gizmos. They do not have gizmos to repair crank handles for RV escape hatches. 
• When you climb inside your neatly organized camper, do NOT take the keys to the far end of said camper with you. Do NOT do it three times. You cannot lose your keys inside your own camper. They are merely misplaced. Breathe.
• Clogs fall off easily and are best left inside the camper. 
• When you climb through the broken escape hatch onto the roof, do it under the fuel area overhang. Yes, it is a wind tunnel but it does keep the rain off.  Do not forget to take a towel to dry off the roof.  
• When you duct tape down the escape hatch from the OUTSIDE of the RV, you are then on the OUTSIDE of your RV.... on the roof. To get back to the ground, you must crawl the length of the camper and climb down the rear ladder.  Without shoes. Breathe. Remember your towel.    
• Wind can blow duct tape all the way across a parking lot. Duct tape is your friend. The wind is not.

• After you spend an hour climbing on the roof of your RV and you jam a hat on your head because it's 40 degrees and raining, your hair looks bad, really bad.  Shopping, even at outlets, is less fun when you look like a homeless person with bad hat hair.            Ahh... vanity, thy name is woman.   Shopping at outlets is a good stretch break and spring is a good time to buy sweaters.      Ahh.... vindication. 

• Listening to a book is a great way to spend a rainy day in Illinois or Iowa or South Dakota. Or in all three states - especially in Clyde, the wonder truck.
• Cracker Barrel has lousy choices for discrimating listeners. But they do have Anne Lamott. Anne Lamott is a great writer. Imperfect Birds will break your heart.  And make you want to parent all over again and never make a mistake. 
• There is no Cracker Barrel in Yankton, South Dakota. Or anywhere between Souix Falls, SD and Cheyenne, Wyoming.  We're not in Virginia any more, Clyde. 

Time to hit the road. So much for a crack of dawn departure. A little unrealistic since I rolled in at midnight or was it 1am?  Your body needs an automatic reset when it crosses time lines.  I need more coffee. 

 I will sleep in TOMORROW... in my snug cabin.  

Will I have heat? Will I have water? Will I wake to snow? 

 Stayed tuned....