Category: Travel

stories of the my freest me

Open For Visitors

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

I swear it was not planned, at least not by me. I just wrote about my new office, described my sanctuary. I didn’t get into the nitty-gritty of each item that made the cut, the thoughtful decisions of final resting places either on my window sill, the bookcase or a shelf, the absolute tyranny I wield over this space because I arranged it and it is filled with my stuff and it is mine! The less attractive details that give a peek into my ache for some bit of determination into just a bit of something, a tiny piece of control over where I at least put my own basket or cup of pencils. I have been working on letting go of what is not mine, the “give it all to God” plan that I battle with so often. That work doesn’t include my office.  The pottery that sits on my desk, I want that just off to the right where my eye catches it every time I reach for my coffee. It reminds me of Janet who brings honesty and grace into my life, sees my brokenness and has never shied away. The picture of my brother and I when we reached Colorado, I want to see it each morning and remember I can do hard and uncomfortable things and be rewarded with amazing insights into God’s creation. The pieces of twine, fraying snips of string, those are my reminders of connections to friends from back home, back when, who stand with me and for me with love, women far away  but who can be reached with just a tug. Another picture is off to the left, where my politics and a deep friendship from college have settled, a drawing from an art fair that captures my faith and this friendship. It reminds me the artist knew my daughter, back when. No random objects here, nothing buried under a hoarding mess. My office is an exquiste time capsule, not fancy surely, but all a reflection of me and my life travels.

Then Plum came to visit. He didn’t know he was intruding, he didn’t know he was supposed to stay out or knock first on the slightly opened door, he didn’t know that the books were arranged on shelves by topic and size. He only knew this room was most recently his play area and his gran was now in it and his gran delights in all that he does and … can you see that it really wasn’t his fault? Yet I grew tense, I suggested we play out in the living room, I offered that maybe Grandpa wanted to play a game with him. Even more appalling, he brought a laundry basket overflowing with several of his closest stuffed friends, dumped them out on my floor then proceeded to develop an elaborate storyline of how each one was finding this space welcoming. Certainly not the vibe I was putting out. Introductions were made at his insistence then animals read books, colored pictures, climbed the ladder in the corner, scoured the globe, two rather shy ones joined up for a game of hide and seek on the shelves. I am ashamed to admit that at first I was quite twitchy, I only noticed that MY stuff was invaded and jostled and messed up. I left for a minute, screamed in a whisper to Chef, returned with a resigned attitude, ready to ride it out while I tried not to keep checking the time. I sat on my hands while I plastered a smile on to avoid grabbing each toy and throwing them back into the basket and right out the door. How long before I could shut this playdate down?

I almost missed it. So very close to clenching my teeth right over the joy of this child sharing his stories in my writing room, realizing that he was arranging his specials as he created his words as well. Oh dear God help me break out of my rigidity!  This world belongs to our Father first, we claim it as our own with lines drawn on paper, we erect our shelves, arrange our specials and create our stories in the space God created, as if we really did something, forgetting just like Plum in my office space, He was here first. I almost missed that my Plum was copying me, he was setting up a space to then share his words. How could I hold so tightly to my room that I didn’t want to nurture his storytelling?

Thankfully I got the nudge that comes with being open to God first thing in the morning, He reminded me that this room is not really mine, that these objects are memories of my own nurturance and empowerment. He reminded me that the most importance room in my world is the one in my heart for this child. I took some deep breaths, I allowed an elephant to tromp across my desk and a rabbit to frolic on my shelves. A giraffe read a book, a frog climbed the ladder while a dog and a bear shyly found each other and played hide and seek. The moose gardened and the panda explored the globe. Soon they all packed up and left, except the shy friends. Plum decided they were most comfortable now with me and were choosing to stay. He said they enjoyed how I shared with them and felt more at home here rather than up with all the other animals.

I have two new objects in my office, hints to be softer, more inviting, ready to cuddle when the rare chance comes. Two blue scuffed up toys that remind me I wasn’t here first no matter how much I try to claim this space. I am a visitor also, I have to knock first too. God opened the door for me to see His world, the real perfect garden He created in my soul. All of this belongs to God, all of me is His. Will I shut the door, arrange my stuff and sit quietly to reminisce or open myself up to new stories and visitors and the charming sounds of a six year old who teaches me about flexibility and finding new friends?

I like my stuff just how it is, I bet God arranged His garden just as He wanted as well. We are all guilty of making a mess of it,  yet He keeps the door open for us, allows us to enter freely and with forgiveness, we get to bring our scruffy friends and tell our stories and rearrange His people and move His creatures. It seems the further I run into my own space, the more I realize the journey is where I see God, not in the destination of my own little territory. Surely I can follow His example and open my heart room for a few more visitors. Some may even choose to stay.

Exquisite
Marathon

The Temptation of More

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

As we made the hour trip to visit family my Plum had questions about houses. He wanted to know what was the very first house ever made. I described the abode Adam and Eve must have created as they left the ultimate shelter. He wanted to see it, wondered why it wouldn’t still be around. As we passed houses we considered how many people lived in each, how many and what kind of pets they might have. Room for beasts like us, cats or maybe a bowl of goldfish? He asked about the smallest house ever and then of course the largest. He was into extremes, sometimes that is how we start, working our way from outer edges back to us. We talked about his old apartment, perfect for just him and Mama but as his family grew they needed more. This apartment has enough space for a stepdad and a new baby sister. We showed him images of the Biltmore Mansion in North Carolina, a reminder of a trip Chef and I took many years ago. Shocked at learning such places existed, imagining getting lost inside, he asked if we would ever have a mansion. I told him we did. We described out home, too much space now for just us but perfect many times throughout the years for all who have needed a dwelling place. We talked about having too much, losing each other in all that house, and about those who have so little that our home is a mansion to them.

We focus often on what we don’t have, the missing pieces, the broken parts or compare to others who have newer bigger shinier versions. With one conversation with my Plum, I gained perspective again, remembering that first home that was filled with everything, all needs met. Still wasn’t enough, temptation to have more, the extra that was out of the budget, the lure of that comes with taking our eyes off of the beauty surrounding us. That is when we lose it all. Lose all perspective and are cast out of goodness and understanding that God is providing. What we have is our enough. Regardless of the beauty of someone else’s enough, regardless of the size of their garden, our enough is from God. We are not called to seek more, we are called to SHARE more. What if Eve had invited that serpent in to share in her garden, to find peace and sanctuary in there? Maybe she had many times, maybe she was broken down by the temptation. Imagining what could possibly have not been enough for her, that she wanted more, with no job loss, with no aging parents, without addiction, with estrangement, without any other worries, what in God’s name could have been so bad that she just had to want more? But that is just it, my list is no one else’s, the things that tempt my sinful nature. Hers were different and show that regardless of how easy life is, still we are broken, we are human. So we compare what we have with others and think we should have bigger, better, newer.

When I traveled to South East Asia, my heart was changed forever. I cannot look at our home with all of its needs and not see how rich we are. I cannot un-know the poverty I witnessed. I am not a saint, I still want to buy way too many Lego sets, especially the new Batman mini figs coming out. It may kill me not to be able to collect those with my Plum. We have reached the place in our financial state where I dare not buy even one packet, I must resist the temptation. Yet every trip down the hallway I pass a toy room filled with Lego, I know he has enough. I find pieces in my purse, on my desk, on the dining room table. Scattered bits of toys that would be precious to those who have not even one. We have enough, our enough is plenty.

The new year brings many ads to organize all the stuff that came in for Christmas, ways to stow away and sort all the things we accumulate. Buying more to clean up what we just bought. The temptations are endless, the lure to forget that what we have is enough beyond the belief to so many. Considering that Jesus carried nothing with him, amassed no wealth, built no homes with attached garages and extra sheds to store his extra robes, how can I as a follower think I need more? If I truly believe that every single thing in my home is gifted from God, how can I question if it is enough, can I really go to Him and say I need more?

Houses are structures. Temporary dwellings that can be filled with people, creatures, love, turned into gardens of Eden. Used to satisfy the needs of all who wander, all who need shelter, places for us to rest as we do the work of God. Conversely they can be the casting out places without us even realizing it, brimming with evidence of temptation engaged, apples bitten. May your home reflect your love of God, may it feel like enough. May your home be a refuge for the lost, may you find peace in your dwelling place.  I live in a mansion built by God. May I look around and see not all that is broken, not what is missing, but see just how very blessed I am. And then share it. This mansion has plenty of room for those in need.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/gone/”>Gone</a&gt;

 

Intruder

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

Drama wanted to come for a visit yesterday. I know this drama, once allowed in, it takes over my home, steals all of my emotional energy, takes my money, separates me from my husband, keeps me from sleeping. This drama knocks on the door, if I don’t answer, it tries to barge right in, uninvited, when my back is turned. I lock the doors, try to reinforce the boundaries, drama can be heard imploring for entrance through the cracks under the door. I call in help, ask for support. I need reminders that I am bigger than this, I don’t have to play host to this intruder.

Disengaging from the choices others make is ultimately a matter of survival for me. I know that I am a rescuer, my instinct is to always give my lifejacket away and then I risk drowning. In the past I have given my preserver to those not even in the water, those taunting from the shore. I was confused, I thought if I just gave more, ever more, we would have reconciliation. We would all swim together. I know differently now. Some people will just never stay in the water with me, not for long anyway. Maybe only long enough for me to think we are all comfortable, we are delighting in the same pool. Drama joins our swim party, the cycle begins again. Except I am just too tired to keep swimming, keep recsuing, keep interacting with drama. I am choosing to try new strategies. I don’t want to risk drowning anymore.

Challenging old patterns, making new choices of how to respond is not without consequences as well. Drama insists on being heard, taking the spotlight. The more I liberate myself, the stronger the pushback. Patterns want to remain. Every next step requires extreme care, considered maneuvering, much as a child’s first steps. I hold onto the wise words of friends, I tread slowly. I stop and ponder how to get back to safety. Yesterday my soul was screaming, “I want to go back to the mountains.” I gave my soul some attention, listened to the voice that was telling me danger lurked ahead. I can’t get on a motorcycle and escape my current situation, how can I regain the lessons from the mountains while still here with drama trying to create unrest?

When I looked at the valleys, the canyons of Colorado, I remembered how small I was and big God is. I was reminded of my little place in the huge picture, flowers grew without me. Water trickled from snow capped mountains to find rivers below. God has a plan that doesn’t require my lifejacket, my involvement in ensuring that all his seeds sprout, that all the snows melt and find their way home. Yes, the mountains, my soul whispered, remember what we learned there. We are a seed also, God showed us how to bloom.

Drama is going to keep knocking, this drama is going to grow. Protecting my fragile heart is my priority, rather than rescuing others from the choices they have made.  I can only pray they someday take their own trip to the mountains. Maybe then we will all swim and truly relish the water together.  For now, I’m focusing on all the pictures of my trip, listening to my soul and keeping my door locked.  Drama, you are not welcome here.

Dark, Donkeys, Disciples

On By LisaIn Faith, TravelLeave a comment

I can’t see in the dark. Even in the dusk really. I stumble into walls and chairs, trip over 100 lb beasts who blend into the black even though they are white, golden. The stairs are a particular hazard, I often forget to count as I proceed down and miss the last couple. Every night before I go to bed, I make the rounds, ensuring chairs are scooted in, toys are returned to the proper room, all obstacles are cleared. I rise before the light and often during the night, wandering outside to listen to the sounds of the dark, the peaceful time alone soothing my restless soul. These shadowy wanderings are dangerous for one with limited feeling in the lower extremities, limited eyesight. Darkness is perilous, light is safety. Is it any wonder that I seek the Light, that my soul yearns for those who shed this precious glow into my world?

Two weeks ago I moaned and complained to my small group because my plan for time after my Plum headed to kindergarten was not panning out. I expected long days of writing in solitude, space to contemplate, to just be alone. Now my Chef was home with me all day and I loved his company but I needed quiet, needed seclusion. My friends listened, suggested, gave me space at their homes. On the drive to C’s home, our gathering place for this next meeting, I went below the speed limit. I extended my time alone in the car. I fantasized about driving back to the mountains where I felt such peace.  I arrived with an update of irony,  a house more filled with noise, chaos. A home exploding  with the sounds of a 2 1/2 year old, dogs barking, people talking, cooking, always, always activity.  For someone who craves silence, I certainly seemed to be undermining my own plan.

C. shared the fable about the man who went to the mountain top, complaining about his wife and kids and the noise. The guy at the top, the wise one, told him to bring in his donkey. The man descended, brought in the donkey and then soon returned to the mountain top. What horrible advice, he complained. My home is now even louder! He was advised to bring in his cow. Again he descended, followed the advice, his home grew louder. This process repeated until all of his animals were in his home. Finally about to lose his mind, (I am assuming, as I would be) he ascended again to the wise one. He was told to remove all of the animals to their rightful place. The cacophony of clucking, mooing, baying, baaing, barking, all gone. Silence, as silent as a household with only his wife and children could bring. He was content. (Too Much Noise by Ann McGovern, my retelling is complete paraphrase, buy the book.)

I got the message. C brought perspective which is called light in my world. This story was a gentle chiding even though she never would have meant it that way. Not a story about donkeys or cows or loud children, rather about choosing to find your own peace in the midst of the chaos, determining your own role in the noise making. How much we hear, how much we see, knowing there can always be more, worse, our choice to find comfort in the now. I left our group feeling chastised. I needed that. Those people who follow Jesus, they are called disciples. It requires discipline. Not the spanking kind that this word has come to be associated with, rather the teaching kind. Jesus was a teacher who led the way into the Light. Using parables, he called his people out of the darkness. He asks us to do the same with each other, never to be too afraid to gently hold another sister accountable. But first there must be trust. Preaching at strangers doesn’t work. Teaching with, to our friends is discipleship. I trust these friends to discipline me because I know their hearts.  I hear what God is calling them to say, even when they would be appalled to think I felt chided. I know God is in the midst of our gatherings.

I need friends who help me find my way around in the shadows, removing obstacles with me, putting things where they go. Otherwise I trip and fall, I get hurt. Without friends to share their wisdom, I would never find my way home, stuck adding noise, adding chaos, bringing in donkeys and cows. I would be forever wishing I could go back to the mountains. Somehow I stumble, trip to these wise friends who take this journey with me and illuminate the way when it is too dark for me too see. My friends are disciples who carry candles, art supplies, make bread and share stories. Sometimes a trip to the mountains is just across town, a slow drive towards the Light.

Communing Sunday

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

Our two rather large dogs were terrifying to our little house guest. No amount of reassurance would convince him that he was safe. As they drew near, he screamed. They are so protective of my Plum that the screaming told hem they must comfort this small boy, so they tried to go closer. More screaming. So our beasts were stuck outside, confused and barking. A dance began, moving the dogs either in or out, depending on where our new friends were. My Chef entertained while I sat with the dogs, our home divided. I prayed that I could find some solution, I wondered about the wisdom of opening our home to strangers. Beautiful in theory, complicated in the execution. We seemed to be offering a bit more misery than hospitality. I searched for a solution, wondering if a different home would be a better fit. Fearing permanent traumatization, I knew something had to change.

Chef informed me that he had invited our housemates to church, I was appalled. This act of evangelism felt disrespectful to their pathway to God, I worried they would feel pressured as our guests to go. Given that the beast dance was wearing me down, I had little energy or even time to chastise my husband. I hoped they would assert themselves and politely decline, I worried how I would attend and leave them with the beasts. I worried, got more and more tired. Finally the dogs and I escaped to my bedroom, fatigued ruling wisdom. I gave up. I forget that until I get so tired of trying to steer the ship, I don’t let God take over.

Before the sun even rose on our sabbath morning I asked Chef for the day’s plan. He confirmed our guests were joining for church, I was taking everyone to meet at the late service as he leaves early to teach Sunday school.  While I slept, he  and God had been busy with details I now had to implement. Escaping to my porch sanctuary with beasts, I drank coffee and talked with God. I drank more coffee, tried to listen. God whispered. Realizing I had the perfect interpreter, someone who could communicate to a little boy that these dogs were harmless. I called in my Plum, this almost 6 year old bundle of compassion who wrestles the beasts and spreads joy. While it was mama’s weekend, she graciously allowed us to pick him up to join for church and play time after. Mama understood non-beasts loving people. What ensued was such beauty that only God could have been messing around with this.

We walked into church, my Plum, little Jesus, Mary and Joseph and I. I’m not sure anyone even greeted me. The children were too adorable, the adults immediately welcomed, shepherded to the coffee bar.  My worrying couldn’t find any place to land, pushed aside by joy. “Yes, I am among friends, friends who will carry this yoke with me.” For a time I could just rest in the house of God.  How often I forget that I don’t have to do this, any of this, alone. Coffee, tea, water bottles in hand, we entered the sanctuary, boys racing around as little boys do.  I will only attend a church that allows little boys to race around.

I assumed we would sit in the back, inconspicuous, as much as any one could be dressed in such beautiful scarves as Mary. Chef told them we sit in the front row and guided everyone up there. His boldness is ridiculous sometimes. The children and I sat on the floor, dumping out the baggie of cars I had brought. Plum searched my purse for the snacks he knows Gran always has. Packages of cookies were opened, divided. One for him, one for Jesus, over and over, as they sat on the prayer kneeler in front of the entire congregation.   Communion in the purest sense.  Music began, the boys danced. Jesus danced just as my Plum used to so freely do until he got a bit shy and aware that he was dancing alone. We go to a Methodist church after all.  When the children were dismissed for Sunday School Jesus went also with some coaxing but soon returned. Back to the floor I went, rolling matchbox cars to and fro, until it was time for communion when I retrieved my Plum. He loves communion. He loves the bread the juice the lining up with everyone to participate in something he knows is special. Jesus was ready to partake as well. More worrying, how to stop a child from having “snack” that everyone else gets?  Anxiety spiking, searching for a quick solution, the voice of my pastor broke through.

Pastor Chris reminded the congregation that everyone is invited to the table. He spoke God to the people. The people heard. Joseph rose to join the line, I could barely breathe. Mary sat still in her chair, the boys rushed ahead. As the communion steward tore a piece of bread and handed it to little Jesus, she told him it was love broken for him. Is there anything more pure, more magnificent?  Finally, Mary rose, unsure, haltingly, to join the line. I walked with her although I had already received this sacrament. Arm in arm, we walked to the table of grace.

After church Plum played with the beasts and spoke confidence into little Jesus. By the end of the day we had harmony in our home, no more separation dance. Our guests cooked a meal for us, stepping around beasts in the kitchen. We communed again. I may never write these words again, pay attention. I was wrong, my Chef was right. He sent out an invitation because he was listening to God’s call. I pray that I can be so fearless when given the chance. I pray that I can trust that when God brings us someone to love, he doesn’t leave us to work it out on our own. I pray that I remember communion is little boys dancing to worship music, Muslims taking bread and juice with a group of Christians because we have shown the real face of our One Father. I want to always remember when Pastor Chris said, “Let’s pray,” Jesus stopped playing cars and ran to me, enveloped me in a hug and didn’t let go as we rocked on the floor of the sanctuary. Hearts beating together, wrapped in the arms of Jesus, is there anything more glorious than that?

My soul is overwhelmed, brimming with the love and light God has shown me. This lesson of trusting God is something I relearn everyday,  easier with the example of children.  Bread and juice and cookies become sacred. If I just keep showing up, our One Father will supply the miracles.  The table is set before me, open for all who seek to lead a life of peace and love. I come to it broken, like the bread. I pour out my pain, just as the blood of Jesus was poured for us all. Shared, we become whole.

  • If I am bold enough to issue invitations,
  • if I am silent long enough to listen to the whispers of God,
  • if I am transparent enough to rely on my faith community,
  • if I am honest enough to acknowledge that quite often my Chef is right,

I will find communion. I don’t ever have to wait for Sunday. Grace and light will meet me there. Thanks be to God.

 

Soccer with Jesus

On By LisaIn The Chef, Travel6 Comments

I played soccer with Jesus yesterday while Chef loaded baggage into our car. My 2 1/2 year old opponent spoke little English but his beautiful brown eyes and quick smile stole my heart immediately. Little boys and grandmas need few words when a ball is available. The other adults managed the packing up to move this family who came to America and found there was no room at the inn. I played soccer with Jesus who’s family worships a different path to God. His mama doesn’t call him Jesus but my soul knew.

This couple, highly educated, came to study at Purdue and found themselves the victim of a fraud. Their housing agreement, paid in advance didn’t exist. No room at the inn. God was watching though as He guided them to the doorsteps of a member of our church who has been sheltering them for a week, establishing them at the university and setting up banking. His skills at maneuvering those systems as well as his apartment that was free for a week must be God showing off. Our extra beds close to the school, our habit of taking in strangers, our nest newly emptied, God clearly is guiding this Islamic Mary and Joseph on their journey. We are honored to provide a safe haven for weary travelers in a strange land with the blessings God has given to us. Isn’t this God’s house anyway?

As we navigated food and customs and acclimating a child to our rather large beasts, I heard Jesus call me Auntie. He calls for me, of course I come. So easy to answer any call when the voice is that of a child. God knows how to talk to my soul. We ate pizza, not the best way to welcome them but we were all exhausted. The banana I sliced for him became our game, another way to connect. We adults are finding our voices with each other, Jesus and I are already communicating well. I looked at this family sitting at my table, breaking pizza together, knew it was thanksgiving early. I knew it was grace. How to stop hate in our world? How to stop the polarization, the labeling, the separation into groups based on religion or gender or who one loves? Invite Jesus to play soccer. Then have some pizza. It really doesn’t have to be harder than that.

Soon they will be settled in their campus housing, the 6 months they are here will fly by. I believe they will return and tell stories of Jesus worshipping people who took them in, then sent them to the next family who worships Jesus. They may tell stories of hospitality and grace that will shed light into who we as Christians are, who we are meant to be. Christians who try hard to follow the teachings of Jesus and follow that entertain strangers bit. We will tell stories of God’s glory in guiding Mary and Joseph and little Jesus on a journey. One story at a time, we might just spread love.

Growing into Me

On By LisaIn Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

I didn’t get in for a haircut before I left for my trip, a huge mistake I discovered. My family had worried that my weak neck would suffer under the weight of the helmet but the real issue became the itchiness when I got so hot. I imagined shaving my head bald during those long times between stops when I tried to stick a straw between the padding and my head, trying to scratch where my fingers couldn’t reach. Much like wearing a cast in the blazing sun, I was desperate for relief. As soon as we stopped, the helmet came off and I scratched furiously about my crown. I should have taken the time for a hair cut. I mentioned it at least 1 million times to my Chef in our daily calls. “Yes, my back is fine. My pelvis is still in place. I need a haircut!”  A minor thing became a huge annoyance, the mosquito effect.

The morning after our return I stopped at the first place open, a local men’s shop. I have gone there before since  a now wear my hair short. I am not huge on style anymore and the gal does a good job. I go with my Plum and Chef when they are getting styles, real ones. I skip the hot towel and shave. It has been working for me. Why would I think differently?  I ran in with no Plum or Chef. My gal wasn’t there. A new girl, who wanted to chat and I was still decompressing from the trip. Minimal answers to her questions. I am used to professionals understanding when I say cut the whole thing off knowing that this means they need to take control and just offer me some water. She asked those polite questions about why I had planned, I said I had just gotten back from a two week trip on a Harley and needed to figure out if my cats were still alive. I focused on the Olympics playing on every tv, regardless of how she turned my chair. She asked if I was into those. I said I hadn’t seen any coverage, needed to catch up. I really just wanted a haircut and some peace.

It turns out she just shy of shaved my head. It will be weeks before I can attempt at a style which I now think might be important. It occurred to me later that maybe she made an assumption about me based on the clues given, that maybe I was a lesbian. I certainly look for all outward appearances now as the stereotype. Not a lipstick lesbian.  I appear as if I should know how to use power tools. (This is the place where I say sorry to lesbians for stereotyping YOU!) My Chef who was so happy to have me home was quite taken aback when I got into the car.  “Holy Shit, ” I think was his supportive response. This haircut is not just a bad one, it is a statement. The problem is that for those who go to church with me, it is a statement that brings confusion. Did she mean to do that? Is there trouble in that marriage? What really happened on her trip? You know a haircut is bad when folks comment on your shoes. Shoes you have worn forever.

The deal is, I rushed, I didn’t tell the whole story and I got an identity that doesn’t fit. Someone else took pieces that I had laid out and made a choice of who I was and I have to live with that for a few weeks. Fortunately it’s just hair and it grows. Fortunately I don’t really care what others think of my sexual orientation except that has been a newsmaker in the past. Along about 1994, I stopped displaying any femininity. Baggy dark clothes to hide my body, no jewelry to enhance or draw attention, make up by the wayside, I stopped shouting that I am a woman  and instead whispered please don’t see me. I only recently started merging this other part of me back in, slowly, just a bit at a time. Putting in some earrings, wearing clothes that don’t blend into the woodwork. I am 52 years old and still working out my identity. I am still working out what I tell others affect how they see me. I know that I get to decide who I am but not telling also leaves them with little choice but to fill in the blanks.

I am learning, one bad haircut at a time. I am a Harley riding Grandma who loves cats and her family, not always in that order, who watches sports and sappy movies. I am a woman who is figuring out that earrings go with sweatshirts and mascara is ok. I haven’t worked up to lipgloss. What do you think of my shoes? My hair will grow along with my opportunities to be me.

Moments of Magic

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

A goal was set each day, reservations already in place for our hotel, the number of miles we needed to travel predetermined. Sometimes it was 300, often only 200, many times around 500. Each morning as we packed up the bike again my brother outlined for me the places we would discover and the end city.  He joked often that we had a short day of riding which actually never panned out. Each evening after showers, after dinner, a time was agreed upon for kick stands up in the morning. All these agreements were necessary for group travel, no actual leader. Maybe it was because it was vacation, maybe because grace traveled with us, but I discovered more than amazing new vistas. I learned what patience looks like.

At the pretrip meeting when I was told how to pack, that I really needed lip balm with sunscreen, I was also told that my vote counted just as much as the other three travelers. If I wanted/needed to stop I merely had to say so. If I wanted a picture, needed to eat or use the bathroom, was just ready to stretch my legs, all ok.  I heard this but was so overcome with gratitude to be included that I didn’t want to be a burden thus determined not to ask for stops unless absolutely necessary. I think though the whole 2 weeks I only tapped my brother’s shoulder 3 times, my bladder screaming once and my pelvis another. The third time was when he asked if I was okay and I was frozen in my tank top, the temperature drop and pelting rain creating misery that I would have pushed through had he not inquired. Stop we did though, each time, and I rushed through my fixes only to find everyone else gladly taking a break. Coffee was ordered, bandanas re-wetted, tanks filled up again. Phones were checked, calls made to family back home. No one showed the slightest sign of frustration that I was slowing our progress.

We stopped for the others as well, like the time my brother forgot to pay for his gas. The pump didn’t take his credit card so he went inside to give the cashier his card, she chose not to hold it, turned on the pump for him, said, ” I trust you.” As was habit, he filled up, logged it all in his journal, we readjusted helmets and drinks and rode off.  About 15 miles down the road he realized what had happened, pulled over, explained to our companions the situation. We all returned to the station to find the cashier and manager rewinding security cameras, trying to find the biker who rode off without paying.  “You came back,” she screamed when she turned around at the sound of the bell tinkling as we entered. He apologized profusely, gave his card again. Outside, helmets were donned, drinks readjusted, then the cashier came running out.  She hugged him, said no one ever comes back. We all rode away, knowing we were behind schedule but ahead in creating memories.

We stopped because we needed more sunscreen and my bandana had flown away. My trick of eating M&M’s as we rode not so successful. The little bag I carried in my borrowed Harley pouch had long melted. I peeled the paper open and scrapped the contents along my teeth, under my helmet. I was thrilled no one could see me, certain I appeared crazy desperate and chocolate covered. Remembering the still slightly damp bandana around my neck, I carefully removed that as we flew at 60 plus miles and snuck it under my face shield, cleaned myself up. But what to do with the messy bag? I wrapped it up in the bandana and tucked it under my leg until I could clean it all up at our next stop.  Content with my ingenuity and a belly full of sugar, I went back to watching the scenery.  Back to wiggling and rearranging myself, legs up on the pegs, leaning back, forward, to the side.  Away went my forgotten treasure, my mess, my cooling towel. So we stopped at a Walgreens after our lunch, another delay. There we met Rene.

My brother went in and was greeted by this gorgeous African-American women with long braids and a huge smile. She asked if she could help and then did. He got the sunscreen, new bandana and more M&M’s for me. I waited outside in the shade, stretching my legs just a bit more. Out they both come, excited voices as she exalted over his bike. Apparently she had remarked on his attire, asked about his journey. He invited her to see the bike and she jumped at the chance.  The rest was pure magic, pure joy. He told her to jump on, to grab her phone for a picture. Her shock was quickly overcome, she got on, pictures were taken. Then she hugged him, a real hug.  One of those really tight man you are the best kind of hugs. She told me to take care of him, that he got me a surprise. Then I got a hug as well. The same kind.  Rene knows how to hug. I’m really sorry for littering but wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on that stop for anything.

I could go on forever about the people we met at our stops, those are amazing stories to me. But something I have realized is that I am a bad traveler usually. I rush my Chef. I keep a timetable, I am always ready for the next thing. How many Rene’s have I missed?  Every Sunday I holler up the stairs, “are you ready yet?’  knowing he isn’t but giving the signal it is time to go. Maybe it is easier on vacation, maybe it is easier when there are no children anxiously waiting.  My look is composed of a shower, clean mostly matching clothes and some eyeliner. My Chef takes much more time with his appearance, things match, his hair has product, he smells good. Shoes match shorts, shirts are ironed. He just takes longer. So I rush him. I have felt quite righteous in this rushing, until two weeks of travel when I never got rushed. Even when everyone else was ready and my Plum needed to FaceTime. Even when I decided at the last-minute I really did want/didn’t want my hoodie.

Rushing through to the next thing, hollering about time to leave, washing the dishes while some are still eating, never staying until the end, that’s my thing. I’ve always attributed it to my hyperness but honesty now requires a deeper truth. I avoid people. I am not so comfortable in my skin that I stick around long. That whole being in the moment thing, again. Moments can last longer than I like. The example of my traveling companions was so powerful, so telling. Those moments are where the magic happens. Those moments are where you get the hugs. Those moments lead to M&M’s. I am trying to slow down, to offer that grace now that I am back home. I am trying to remember that our end city is set, our reservations for the night made. We get to have an adventure each day if we chose.

Sacred Offering

On By LisaIn Faith, TravelLeave a comment

I’m going to tell you a secret. I cried as we drove through the mountains. No one saw, my face was obscured by the helmet, my eyes covered by sunglasses.  Tears flowed  over my sunburnt cheeks as we cruised carefully by each bend to find a trickle working its way down from the snow caps above. Just God and I knew. I cried because I was small and the mountains were big. I cried because the Aspens rose up to touch the sky, the clouds were within reach. I cried because the beauty overwhelmed me and I was within it.

The road around the mountain curved, rose, twisted. No guard rails blocked the view of the valley far below. Wildflowers persisted among the rocks. The rocks of such magnificent size, shape, color, broken rocks filling my soul with wonder. I cried because I could see what God does with brokenness. I fit into that glorious landscape.

I looked at the valleys, I knew those valleys. Richness could be found there, a pooling of all the resources from on high. The valleys where most choose to live, it is too rugged to stay up high with God. I’ve spent much time in those valleys, missing the beauty, my beauty, forgetting to look up, forgetting that by design, valleys must be rimmed with something higher. The roads are safer, straighter, colors more expected. It is easier to hide ourselves in the valleys, to pretend we are more than, stronger than, that we are whole. It is a mistake to stay too long there.

I turned my eyes back up, around me. My broken life, full of shattered pieces and determined new growth, no longer felt ugly. I too am one of God’s incredible works, the fallen rocks shattered to show new colors, spaces made for new streams. I am small, as tiny as the orange flowers that sneak through patches of grass, planted as surely as I am alive only by God. I am broken, broken like the boulders fallen from salt and sand created monuments to our Creator, boulders that fall to leave a glorious arch that spans a lifetime. Shattered sienna, burnt sienna, turquoise, white bring us to our knees. I am home. My broken life is a thing of beauty. My tears were my sacred offering. I let them fall.

Small Meals

On By LisaIn Faith, TravelLeave a comment

I met a cat in Colorado. That’s not biker talk, it was a real cat, a kitten really. After a particularly long day riding through multiple temperature changes we finally arrived at our lodging for the night much later than the usual stopping time. I was too tired to go back out for dinner, instead just sat at the picnic table bordering the parking lot after grabbing a quick shower in the smoky room. As I watched the sky change colors I heard a mewing, an insistent call but couldn’t find the source. This roadside motel mostly filled with other bikers and the staff who cleaned the rooms didn’t seem like a place for pets. I trudged back up the steps and dug out the muffin I had saved from the breakfast buffet hours before and began crumbling pieces for the clearly hungry but still unseen cat.

As I littered the area with what was supposed to be my dinner, I caught glimpses of a little black kitten. His skittishness warred with his hunger, I gave him room to eat and feel safe while I yearned to pick him up and cuddle. He ate the whole muffin so I moved on to water, finding a bowl in the office.  I discovered his hiding spot under a shed in the back and placed the bowl close by then went to bed.

The night brought rain, a rainbow greeted my morning along with the kitten. I found pizza crust left over from my brother’s dinner and began the crumbling again. The kitten came closer, closer still. I tried to catch up on emails and texts before it was time to begin traveling again, the kitten wanted to play. Grass, sticks, my fingers, anything that moved through the little fence were fair game. Still, I never held him, never cuddled.  I left him with water and a bit more pizza.

The thing is, I haven’t stopped thinking about that kitten. For just a few hours our lives crossed, we took care of each other. I couldn’t take the kitten with me, no one there wanted to become responsible for a mostly feral cat. While I was there, though, I couldn’t ignore the need and received the reward of a kitten able to play, for that morning at least.

I met a great many people during my travels, people who will never know that their smiles and kind words fed me. They may never remember the woman on the motorcycle but I won’t soon forget. Making the time to connect, feeding pizza crusts to the hungry, these little moments are the ones that are the sweetest. Not one huge feast, many small meals that fed us all. Grace. Light. Faith in Action.  I am still not hungry.