Category: Travel

stories of the my freest me

My Brother is Grace

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

In high school my little brother saved his money to take us on a skiing trip for my birthday. He and I drove to Michigan, skied for the day and then came out to find we had car trouble and had to stay the night. Our trip was extended, we were elated. Dinner at Denny’s by the hotel, a great night’s sleep and then we hit the road. That was almost 35 years ago. We traveled together several years ago to Florida, just he and I to attend a family funeral. Until this trip though, we haven’t spent so much time together since I left for college. Our original family of five has shrunk to just us, my baby brother who truth be told was always my favorite anyway. During this extended time I got to see the man he has become, not just in snippets over dinners or phone calls. The sweet boy who hollered from his bedroom  every night, “Goodnight, sis, I love you” is now a sweet 50 year old who I wish everyone could know.

He towers over me but never blocks my view. He leads without controlling where I go. He opens doors never assuming I can’t do so myself. He is generous with his heart, his manners, his time and his funds. He talks to strangers, calls them friends. He thanked every worker we saw, the guy cleaning the rooms, the woman working the late night desk. He finds value in everyone he meets then makes them aware of his discovery. It feels good to be around him. He is grace.

He sent me a text a few months ago asking if I would ride on the back of a motorcycle through Colorado if it was free. I said I would definitely ride and would start saving up. The planning began. Texts exchanged about what to wear, special events, maps of the route increased in frequency as the departure date neared. Then he had a routine surgery that wasn’t routine and we lost our income. The trip wasn’t so sure. I wondered at the wisdom of leaving my husband for two weeks at such a delicate time, at spending money we didn’t have. Yet the timing just felt right, necessary. I trusted that God had something to show me, that He had work for my Chef at home. We agreed to go on with the trip. I wasn’t sure if it was a leap of faith or just a selfish act but I felt so pulled to go, a compelling so strong to do this unknown thing with my little brother, I couldn’t stay home.

The night before I left, Chef and I had a big argument about nothing and everything, his anger erupting at me, blindsiding me. I knew it was fear, anxiety at my leaving so I took it for a bit and then decided I wanted no more. I left with a heart full of aching prayers for God to restore to me the Chef I married. I begged for God to help him find his way outside of me, for the rains to dissolve his anger while I was gone. I pleaded with every mile I traveled away from him that God might bring us closer, knowing that could only happen when my Chef found his brothers, those who set examples of grace and humility, who led without controlling, who listened without agenda, who didn’t block his sun.  We couldn’t help each other but God could help us both apart, separately. He listened to my prayers.

Many miles into the trip my hurt and frustration dissolved, clarity returned. I saw the big scenes before me, the smallest details. I saw God in every blink and found the words to show compassion to my Chef, to support his journey also. I found that my trip took days to get where we were going, there was no rushing even through the rain and the cold. We had to endure to hit our destination. I realized I couldn’t rush my Chef either. All around us, we each found grace. My Chef went to lunch, went golfing, made plans for a men’s retreat. He rediscovered the more outside of work I knew waited for him. I watched my brother and his friend Mark practice patience when I needed an unscheduled stop or a waitress took too long to bring our waters. These two men just didn’t get angry. Not once. Not when I broke the cable that connected the trunk lid, not when cars cut us off, not when we had to stop to put on rain suits, again. We each were being loved, healed.

The last night in a hotel, my brother and I stayed up too late talking, remembering our mother together, sharing stories. I learned more about him, perspectives I thought were true maybe not so much.  He told me about myself. He said I am the strongest person he knows. His words still rumble through my mind like the roar of the bike. I trust him but am trying to make sense of that. What I am sure of is that my baby brother is a man of God, a man who rides a Harley and sheds grace on all who are lucky enough to meet him. He gives God the glory for everything, he brings glory to God with his character. I trusted him to drive me to Colorado, a two week trip of letting go and shuffling pieces. God brought us safely home, back to my Chef and my Plum, tired and radiating light and hope. I now have grace to share with my Chef, my soul is restored.

My brother took me on a trip again. A gift greater than two teenagers traveling alone, freedom feeling like the rush of the wind as we flew down the slopes. This trip was to the mountains and the canyons, as 50somethings, who found freedom was trusting our lives to our Creator. My baby brother showed me God again, who looks an awful lot like the guy  driving our bike. Someday I hope to bless him as much.

 

My Voice at Home

On By LisaIn Faith, TravelLeave a comment

I’m back home but I don’t quite fit here. I left for two weeks riding on the back of my brother’s Harley, an adventure that I said yes to without really knowing what was involved. Mountains in Colorado, precious time with my brother, maybe a sore butt, this I anticipated. I wasn’t disappointed. But more, so much more came to me as well.  On the bike, I found hours of alone time, hours of watching the land our God created and we are inhabiting pass by. I looked at gloriously golden fields of hay, at round bales waiting to be plucked up. I saw cows, thousands of cows, who saw me too, their hides glistening in the sun, huge eyes observing while they roamed the pastures that never seemed to end. Streams that became lakes, rivers that flowed up, waterfalls that gushed over rocks hidden between Aspen trees, glory showed up with each blink. I found even more though, I found me.

Across the country, I discovered a need for contact. I didn’t know this about myself. We never ever stopped without people coming up to us and asking where we are from, where we are headed, telling us about their travels. They told us about coming storms. Everyone wished us a safe trip.  I have not one time said that to someone at a gas station . I expected to be judged as bikers, but I was guilty of the judging. I was shocked by the absolute friendliness we encountered, the graciousness of people of every color, gender, age, socioeconomic strata. People have stories, people want to hear stories. A sacredness existed with each stop, a new friend made, a human connection. It was beautiful. At first I just listened as my brother and his friend did the talking. As the miles racked up on the odometer though, I realized I was part of the story. I had a voice, I was worthy of not just listening but speaking as well.

So many years of hiding, trying to be invisible, to be quiet and just watch, meant my voice was a little hesitant, a bit rusty. My manners were off, I wasn’t as quick with the answers as someone so comfortable in their skin like my traveling companions. With each successful encounter my voice was stronger, I grew back into me. On the last morning, an older man pulled his car up to me as I was packing up the bike and asked for directions to a local tire place.  Asked me for directions! The old me would have told him I wasn’t from around there, sorry. Instead, I pulled out my phone and found the shop, handed him the map and gave him the overview. My new friend was on his way with a wave and a honk.  It seems so silly but I was seen, I didn’t pass him off to someone more capable.

I’m back home where my voice hasn’t always been heard or counted. I am back where I have to push a bit harder to remind those around me that I was talking, that I am here. I am new, I am different. Traveling does that. My next challenge is bringing the glory home, being visible in the everyday. I’m starting by waving at passersby and talking to folks at the gas station.  We all have stories to tell, we all deserve to be listened to. Safe travels friends, I heard we might get some weather.

Wine and Murder

On By LisaIn Travel1 Comment

I consider myself a pretty sophisticated traveler by now.  I have left the continent, have gone to 3rd world countries.  I have been to Hawaii 3 times and around the US more times than I can count.  Thus this trip with my sister-in-law and her sister was, as far as the actual travel portion, no big deal for me.  Except I made it one.  In my own defense, I wasn’t feeling well and the last task of sorting out my purse which should have happened the night before we left was left until the rush of the departure morning.  I grabbed my pertinent identification and the all critical dairy pills and left the house.  It wasn’t until we were standing in line ready to hand our boarding passes to the TSA  man that I noticed I had grabbed my expired drivers license.  To answer the question that keeps coming up, they mail the new ones to you so you don’t have to turn the old in anymore.  The gentleman, such a nice man, sent me on through without a word.  After much discussion about getting the other one fed-exed to our hotel in NYC, I googled it and saw that I could fly with an expired ID because your identity doesn’t expire, only your ability to drive with that license.  We had a great week.

Early morning trip to LaGuardia, too empty for the TSA to sweep me through.  Brussels attack had raised security.  My ID was flagged immediately.  Fortunately I had several other forms of identification and knew from reading what my rights were.  They didn’t care. I was pulled to the side and told to wait until someone was free to deal with a troublemaker like me.  At least that is what I heard.  I waited at least 20 minutes.  I couldn’t complain since it was clearly my fault.  Did I mention that you can fly on an expired if it is less than a year old?  Mine was up in January.  Double hit.

Finally someone came to address my situation, look me over and determine I needed extra screening.  They sent me ahead of everyone else through the X-ray machine and found the lighter I had in my pocket.  Don’t judge, yes I may have started smoking again.  No I didn’t check my pockets at any time during that 20 minute wait.  Yes I did say bad words to my self.  Out of the machine, lighter out of pocket try again.  They are getting pretty over me by now.

My carryons ride through the belt scanner and I reach for them on the other side only to be  immediately chastised.  Nope, not done with you yet missy.  The agent reminded me they had my boarding pass.  Then came 20 more minutes of wait.  All the other well-documented travelers went by and I was in the way, like the bad kid in school made to stand by the teacher’s desk.  Finally they had done enough checking me that they could do the second pat down and swipe my bags with the bomb tape. I had a huge sweater on so I offered to take that off, trying to be helpful and accommodating, showing I had nothing to hide.  As I was pulling it over my head, I remembered I had put on that silly shirt I ordered years ago off the internet.  Just a joke.  So silly.  Please God let me on the plane.

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I did make it home.

Flags of Friendship

On By LisaIn Faith, TravelLeave a comment

Spending 4 days in New York City where my white skin, my mid-western accent was not common place did little to sway me to positions of Mr. Trump or any other GOP candidates.  The true diversity of cultures as we toured the Statue of Liberty on the Staten Island ferry was not lost on me.  Listening to so many different languages whispered as we slowly walked to exhibit after exhibit through the 9/11 memorial showed me the respect others have for our country, even if right now that respect is not reciprocated.  I kept remembering how this great city led the nation in embracing our neighbors after the tragedy that hit us all on that day, how we rejected fear.  Yet Mr. Trump calls for a nation of haters and cowards, forgetting our better selves.  This is not who we are, who I met in NYC.  As Brussels was attacked at the beginning of our trip, security was tightened but generosity and hospitality remained.  I watched as strangers tapped distracted tourists, telling them they dropped a boarding pass, their metro cared had fallen, their credit card was sticking out of their pocket. I am ashamed to say that I experience more racism and judgment here in the Midwest than I did in this large city,which used to be known for rudeness and a certain lack of concern for strangers.

As I looked at the flags fluttering in the wind, as the skaters took advantage of the last days of the Rockefeller rink, I couldn’t help but consider that Trump Plaza was only blocks away.  This man wants to put a wall up and yet millions of people come to this city daily to experience the culture, eat the food, celebrate Lady Liberty.  How in God’s name can this man be succeeding in his message?  Just as when I went to Epcot and spoke with folks from Europe who were clearly appalled, I don’t have the answer.  I just know I don’t ever want to visit a museum showing flags that used to fly with such pride.

Killing Fields

On By LisaIn Stella, TravelLeave a comment

Almost 24 hours after walking the sacred grounds of the Killing Fields, the tears won’t stop.  Finally they are flowing freely, enough distance, a country away, has allowed my heart to unclench.  My soul to scream. I will never be the same and I shouldn’t be.

Our tuk tuk driver delivered us first to the prison, the former school, where atrocities replaced laughter. Stark concrete walls, razor wire, instruments of torture.  Guilt as we tour, should we be looking?  But we must, so we can tell.  No one is listening to the Cambodian people still.  40 years later and only 1 war tribunal conviction.  Current leader has Khmer Rouge affiliations.  How is this happening?

We move on to the Killing Fields.  Stella wept over breakfast.  She didn’t want to go but wouldn’t let herself off the hook.  How can you go to the country, indulge in their cheap souvenirs and not see their pain?  But would they feel resentful at her tears?  It wasn’t her family?  We decided it is all of our family, we must cry over these losses.  The people who were lost deserve our tears.  No one will judge.  A pure heart, my daughter, to not want to offend a desperate people with her tears.  We were soon to discover we would give more than that.

The ride to the fields took us through the worst of our travels to date: trash collection areas, recycling sorting, roadside shacks with sewage flowing under.   Dust and dirt covered us, gritty sand in our eyes, hair. The smell…gone was the appetizing mysterious scents of cooking.  And then we were there, just right in the midst of it all was this holy ground.

What happened there, I can barely put into words.  I hesitate over the keys.  I am no stranger to evil.  Evil committed by many to many amazes me.  scares me.  no terrifies me.  there is a huge tree, a big beautiful tree much like my grandson would love to climb and pull the bark off of and use his toy chainsaw on.  this is the tree on which the Khmer Rouge, in front of the moms, bashed the babies heads in. the pit for the moms and babies was right in front of it.  today it is decorated with thousands of bracelets from those who have come to mourn.

Bones and teeth still emerge from the ground, especially after the rainy season.  Every person in Cambodia has a family member who died in this genocide.  It is that recent.  We come to discover truth, they come to find their grandmother.

We left Cambodia and flew to Thailand, many bus transfers and finally got to our hotel late.  All day we talked of the shower we would take.  But we didn’t.  24 hours later, gritty with the dust of Phnom Phen, I can just begin to open my soul to cleansing.

Unloading my Pack

On By LisaIn Stella, TravelLeave a comment

Brought my sadness to south east Asia, packed tightly in my new hikers backpack. Ready to be unloaded, released at a temple, in quiet meditation on a beach at sunrise, after too much laughter with my daughter. Instead I find Thailand has its own sorrow, so deep so pervasive, there is just no room for mine. Grief rides the rickety bus. Hopeless shuffles the feet of even the youngest. Heat slows everyone, there is no escaping the reality of destroyed buildings, lost generations. Rubble and rubbish at the foot of signs for new smartphones.
Riding the night bus overflowing with mattey haired hipsters whose clothes are more authentic than the locals we stop to pick up, I watch as the mopeds swarm us, lead us like pilot fish to the whale. Or is it a shark? During the ride I’m not sure which belly I’m in and can’t sleep the narco-induced slumber of these kids. So I carry the anxiety for my bus mates while the rest jolt and toss and shift but still they sleep. Odors joining, mixing with no concern for boundaries or states rights. Germany Canada Finland France USA.  There are no superpowers, just dust and yesterday’s dirt or maybe the day before and a bit of mosquito spray with incense. I’ve lost track of how many days I’ve worn which clothes, having already shed some at the last two hostels to lighten the pack. With each repacking I evaluate what is critical to carry further into the trip. The sorrow has begun to weigh too much but now in Cambodia I see they too will mock my grief. Only a generation long? Just one year of sadness? How can I give them my tears when they continue to mine bones in the killing fields. No, I came to the wrong continent. A plump middle aged white woman taking artsy pictures of their homeless cats and broken buildings, their old women selling the same pots of noodles her mother and hers before made, this woman has such audacity to dump more sorrow on the broken backs, barely beating spirits. It is truly the rich who seek purpose. The rest seek survival