The long way home

The title reminds me of a Laura Ingalls Wilder story- which is just like this post except without the big woods, the barn, the maple syrup in the snow and no Pa fiddling by the fire. It all began when I went to California for a friend's wedding last weekend. The wedding was elegant and personal, two very important attributes in my evaluation of these events. I got to connect with lots of old friends that fed my soul like a piece of homemade french toast with maple syrup on a wintery morning.

Then I traveled home from the event, beginning Sunday morning at 8 a.m. I flew from Sacramento and then had a long layover in Denver before flying to Chicago. In Chicago, I caught a bus to come back to Mishawaka. With the time changes and waiting, I arrived at the bus station where I had parked my car at 2 a.m. on Monday morning. Keep in mind that I have been sleeping in the bus for several hours already so when I get in my car, I feel a bit groggy and cannot remember exactly where in Mishawaka I am. I head in what I think is the general direction of the toll road, but after several minutes and several turns, nothing looks familiar. I am on these narrow, deserted, residential back streets at 2:30 a.m. I don't see any gas stations that are open and even if they were I don't like the idea of asking for directions in the middle of the night. I don't want to call family and wake them up to ask for directions (besides the fact that this is a non-option since my cell phone is nearly dead). In the midst of my pre-dawn meanderings, I suddenly see the bright eyes of a small animal on the side of the road which I swerve to miss, but the small animal runs towards the center of the road and squish, thud, squash, kerplunk! (the sounds of a dead opposum underneath my car).

I keep driving until I recognize my old stomping grounds from college, which quickly re-orient me to the route home. However, barely do I get to enjoy the sense of relief one feels from getting un-lost, when I hear a strange noise from the front of my car, like a knocking or a whirring. I decide to ignore it but as I get on a four-lane road and increase speed, it gets more obnoxious and harder to dismiss. At some point, I wonder if my tires are okay but when I first stop along the side of the road, it's pitch black. I cannot even see well enough to surmise what the problem may be. So I drive slowly many miles to the next gas station (earlier noted as "dangerous" in the middle of the night but now seen as the lesser of two evils). I get under the car and see one side of some piece of my car dragging the ground in front.

At this point, I am angry that I have always been too lazy and sexist to learn anything about car maintenance besides how to check my oil, clean the windshield and put in gas. So when I look at the "hangy thing", I have no idea if it is needed for my car to function or if it is perhaps merely "cosmetic". So I use my precious seconds of remaining cell phone time to wake my dad up in the middle of the night for some advice (earlier noted as rude, humiliating and unnecessary- now seen as part of crisis management). We get cut off several sentences into our conversation, shortly after he groggily asserts, "It's hard telling what it is." With some choice words running through my mind (mainly about my own poor choices), I go into the gas station and politely ask the clerk if I could charge my cell phone and if there is any rope, twine or string which I could use to tie the "hangy thing" under my car up. He finds me an outlet and a bungy cord which I purchase and use to tie up said "hangy thing". I call my parents back to say that I am still alive (since they are now worried, awake and wondering if I have been attacked by bandits or nocturnal wolves). I then drive the remainder of the way home, fall into bed and sleep a couple of hours before getting up for work at 6 a.m.

The moral of this story: Life in the big woods with fiddles and fires seems enticing during moments of mechanical mishap (Or perhaps, don't think you're wonder woman and plan your travels to include solo night driving, even if it means a cheaper airline ticket).

Gluttony?

It's been a while since I posted and I've been busy- mostly hanging out with twenty-two seven-year-olds by day and connecting with friends by night. In fact, I believe that tonight will be the first evening in the last ten that I plan to stay at home. One friend last week labeled my schedule as indicative of a "voracious appetite for people." Then Sunday in church the sermon was about gluttony which was defined as an excess of something that gives you pleasure (a paraphrase). So I began to wonder, "Can one become consumed with people to the point of gluttony/excess?"

For the most part, I tend not to answer complex questions like that with a simple yes or no. Instead the answers seem jumbled up like a tangled ball of yarn. One of the threads of truth in this untidy mess argues that I was created for community, given a perfectly-natural desire to be in relationship with both God and others. Another thread argues that I am simply being proactive about initiating with others in order to avoid isolation in my basement apartment out in the countryside. Yet there is another part that knows there is real value in solitude, quiet and silence. That part of me wonders if I am just running away from the empty space, afraid of what I may find if I have time to sit and reflect.

This tangled ball analogy reminds me of a professor that I had in seminary who was talking about Proverbs and the way that sometimes there seems to be truth at both ends of a spectrum. (Like sometimes Proverbs talks about it being a good idea to save money and then other times it seems like the author is saying don't save because it can be dangerous). He said simply that sometimes they're both true; in the example above, saving can be both good and dangerous. And somehow I can almost hear his charming British accent in my ear, responding to my present jumble of thoughts, "The answer is yes. Connecting with people can be both good and dangerous."

Sick

Fortunately it's not me who is sick- unless you count the little sore throat and sniffles that I have had for nearly ten days.

It's my computer- it has a virus. Anyway, it's hard to keep up a blog from the computers at the public library. So stop sitting on the edge of your seat eagerly awaiting my next post, it could be a bit.