my favorite day

We spent eleven full days visiting our son and his family in North Carolina.  Any one of those days could easily be considered a favorite.  We’re not hard to please… just sitting around drinking coffee qualifies.  Did the occasional afternoon nap qualify?  Yes.  Yes it did.

Fortunately we share a fondness for haunting antique shops, good conversation, soaking up history and eating good food.  Giving us a rest from our long trek east, David chauffeured us everywhere.  And Kelly cooked her heart out.  She is clearly the best macaroon baker east of the Mississippi… likely the west too.

There is one day, however, that ranked as my favorite of our summer trip.

Wilmington is our usual coastal destination, with a stop for food at the Fish House.  This time David wanted to check out Fort Fisher.  His friends camp there and had recommended it as a great place to take the family.  Just a bit farther down the coast, we added it to the day.

During the Civil War, Fort Fisher was a confederate outpost which kept the port of Wilmington open to blockade runners.  It eventually became the last supply route open for Robert E. Lee and his troops.  On December 24, 1864, a massive federal amphibious assault on the fort began.  And on January 15, 1865, Fort Fisher fell to the union army.

There is little left of the fort today.  And the beauty of the coast line, marshland grasses, trees and flowers belies what happened there over 140 years ago.  We walked the raised sidewalk, read the story of the fort posted along the way and snapped pictures.  I felt the same quiet reverence I’d experienced at Gettysburg, Antietam, Pearl Harbor… the day my father died.

Battle over.  Peace has come.


At six years old, Nickson hopped, skipped, and made sounds that any six-year-old would make… until David spoke up, calm but firm…

… “Nickson.  Be respectful.  People died here”… , words that didn’t surprise me coming from an army veteran who’s seen the sacrifice of war first hand.  He explained some of what happened at the fort, pointed out areas along the path, pictures… all the while demonstrating respect to the generation he’s raising.

On any other day his words could easily be,

…be respectful, someone made that for you

…be respectful, someone paved the way for you

…be respectful, someone taught you

…be respectful, someone tried their best to love you

The list could go on…

Just. be. respectful.

It’s a favorite moment to watch a son teach the next generation.

So our time at the North Carolina coast moved right along.  We walked on the beach, splashed in the waves, lunched at the Fish House and did our best to hit as many antique stores as our tired feet would allow.

Then David drove us home.

Nickson fell asleep.

So did I.

And I respectfully submit, that was my favorite day.






good people

At a stop light in Corydon, Indiana, a young man jumps out of his pick-up truck and runs behind ours.  Before we can even think what’s happening… “your gas cap was off”, he yells with a smile and thumbs up as he jumps back into his truck…

Young people learning summer jobs at the KOA campground in WaKeeney, Kansas… guiding campers into their spaces, maintaining the grounds, answering phones, learning the ropes of the office, and preparing ice cream sundaes in the evening.  It reminded me of my own teenage summers, the jobs I did and the work ethic modeled.  It shaped the rest of my life…

And the bus driver in Memphis, Tennessee, on a quiet Sunday morning, who gave us the run down on where to go and where to eat.

“But where do you eat?”, Doug asked.  Gus’s Chicken.  It may not look impressive, but inside was the best fried chicken I have ever eaten.  Ever… image


I love to remember these people.  I must remember.  Because truth is, we’ve only been home two weeks and it’s slipping away from me.

My mind is fogged with the everyday-ness of life.  Bills to pay, groceries to buy.  Phone calls, appointments, undone projects, and the TV news.  It overwhelms.

Life rolls on.  It always does.


So this may look a little crazy (nerd alert), but I actually sorted out all the receipts, leaflets, maps and advertisements picked up along the way.  In date order.  I just wanted to reassure myself that it really happened.  That I really did have that great meal in San Antonio. that conversation in New Orleans, and our bacon saved by that mechanic in Orange, Texas.  Yes.  Yes.  It happened.

I love thinking about the family we met at a bus stop in San Antonio.  The father approached Doug to thank him for his service.  (Doug’s ball cap gave him away)  The man was flanked by teenage sons.  His wife surrounded by smaller children, three of whom were adopted.  Turns out they were at the same campground as us.  Turns out camping is about the only way they can afford to travel together.  I shared the laundry room with father and sons later that day.  Piles of clothes and towels belonging to little brothers and sisters.  Turns out they were having fun.  They made the chore into an event.

We camped next to a fifth-wheel outside Roswell, New Mexico, containing a dad, a mom and three daughters.  They sold their home in Maine, and are taking one year to travel the USA.  Daughters are home schooled and dad does web design.  A very mobile lifestyle.  They were an encouragement to us after our rough start.  The first three months they were on the road, everything that could go wrong, did go wrong.  But they kept going.  Things got better.  Keep going, they said.  We did.

There was the waitress in Price, Utah, upon hearing our tale of woe and flat tires, offered to drive us back up the road to the repair shop.  We thanked her and assured her we were well able to walk back and reclaim our ride.  When asked why we were traveling across the U.S., I told her “because we want to”.

She shook her head saying, “wow, guess it’s better late than never”.

Apparently, we looked especially old that day.

And by the way, there were people older than us on the road.


In New Orleans at the KOA campground, we met a large, multi-generation family group who joined us on the shuttle going downtown.  They camp there every year.  Why?  I do not know.  Other than eating beignets and drinking coffee at Cafe’ Du Monde, there is nothing about my New Orleans adventure I’d care to repeat… but that is another story.

The matriarch of this group, almost 90, was small and frail.  She applauded our cross-country trip, saying she had done it many times when younger.  Her love of travel seemed to have passed to her children.  They were kind. attentive and committed to getting her from point A to point B.  She climbed into the shuttle on her own, but returned later that day in a transport chair.  Soaked to the skin, as we all were by the afternoon rain storm, she was all smiles.  No complaining.  She’d had a great day.

Over the course of 39 days of travel, we met a small assortment of rude, entitled people.  Just normal life.

But they were far outnumbered by the spunky adventurers, the hard-working, the thoughtful.  They were overshadowed by those who enjoy the simple things, who are good to grandma and grandpa, who are busy walking out integrity for their children to follow after.

We even met a few who made space for us.  Space that wasn’t convenient…

Almost out of Texas, the oil pressure gauge was alternately dropping and spiking.  Doug pulled over to make some calls and found a garage in the town of Orange that would fit us in.

The owner, an older gentleman, listened to the symptoms, advised us he wasn’t a diesel mechanic, but suspected it might be a sensor.  While Doug dealt with that end of things, I sat in the small office chatting with the owner’s son, a man about 50 and the office manager.  He was wearing a bright pink t-shirt, emblazoned with local fire department logo.  The office had an odd smell of flowers, grease and cleaning solvent.  His Texas twang… I wish I could provide audio.

‘where y’all going’?

“where y’all from”?

“are y’all hungry, cause there’s a great steak place just around the corner”.

“I’m sure my daddy can get y’all fixed up in no time”.

“hey, we can run y’all to the restaurant if you’re hungry… no trouble”.

I wanted to ask him why he was wearing a pink t-shirt.  But Doug came back in and asked him if he was in the fire department instead.

No… he was just supporting breast cancer awareness because his mama died of it.

Then I saw the picture of mama, flanked by a bouquet of silk flowers and a scented candle… which explained the flowery mingling of oil and solvent.

He told me some about his mama, that she’d been his best friend and he truly missed her.  Every day he missed her.  I learned that he and his daddy had never been close until his mama died, but now they are best buds.

They decided they needed to do something special awhile back, so they flew to Las Vegas.  And it scared him to death.  He’d never flown before (nor since) and he was worried about “that 9-11 thing”, as if it had happened yesterday… and well, you know, “there’s lots of crazies out there”.

I felt honored that he shared so much. But then, maybe he tells every wandering traveler that story.  I’ll never know.

I do know they collectively turned a stressful day into a relatively pleasant time.  Eventually a new sensor was installed and we were on our way.  There were several mechanics working, other cars and trucks in the shop, but they stopped and got us on the road.  They made me feel like our problem was all that mattered for that bit of time.

It was a little tricky getting our truck and trailer out of there.  They offered to block the highway, shut down traffic.  But Doug had developed mad maneuvering skills and was working it out.

The entire shop stood outside trying to “help” with hand signals.  I’m sure it did not help, but they tried anyway.  They were still waving as we hit the road.

I felt like I’d just left Mayberry.

I agree with my friend in Orange… there are a lot of crazies out there.  But there are a lot more that aren’t.  In the meantime, I will do my best to hang on to these memories and hundreds more like them.

There’s still good out there.  I’m hanging on to that too.


WaKeeney, Kansas

at home wherever you roam

In spite of the fact I can hardly wait to go places and have new experiences… it is often done with much gritting of teeth and stifled discomfort.  Doesn’t make sense, does it?

I want to go, but I want to stay.  I want to experience new, but I love the familiar.  I want to see what’s around the bend, but at the end of the day I’d really like to relax in my comfy recliner.

During the planning of our cross-country trip, Doug and I considered staying in motels.  But a different bed every night wasn’t appealing.  That is how, after a long search, we ended up with a travel trailer.

The trailer isn’t the newest.  But it was clean, in good working order and fit the budget.  We filled it with our own “stuff” and made it a mini-home.  Never mind we hadn’t traveled in this manner before, we were sure this was the best choice.  It was going to be great!  Totally awesome…oh, yea!

First week on the road… I was sure I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.

It didn’t help that we had two trailer tire blowouts within the first three days… or that the water system, which was fine at the start, suddenly seemed to have issues.

The first few mornings, I awoke to find I’d become Gulliver.  Our lilliputian bed, toilet, sink and shower just didn’t cut it.  I have a mark on my right forearm from whacking it repeatedly against the cupboard on my side of the bed and a permanent sore spot on my left elbow from banging it into the shower caddy over and over and over again.

Loving fresh air as I do, I opened windows and all the roof hatch covers one morning to enjoy the breeze.  Unfortunately, I forgot to close the hatch in the bathroom.  Then… we drove through a wind storm.  Then… we ended up with permanent ventilation in the roof.

I can still hear our host, Mike, welcoming us to Sonora, Texas, … “it never rains here”, he says.

Just to be safe, Doug climbed up top and patched the hole as best he could.  And, of course, that night was the craziest, wildest, WIND-THUNDER-LIGHTENING-RAIN storm ever.

I also discovered how much I missed my quiet morning routine.  Because Doug doesn’t do quiet morning routine.  So I got up earlier.  That way I could at least get one cup of coffee in me and enjoy the peaceful, morning air for a few minutes.  And that’s all I’ll say about that.

Nobody is perfect.

And this may sound weird, but I was intimated by the toilet.  I was kind of afraid to use it.  Plus, being the detail oriented person I am, I was concerned about how full certain tanks might be, about the (hopefully remote) chance of overflow, and exactly how much fresh water did we have.  You know, I just felt it was my duty to worry about those things.  But the first time we (and by we I mean Doug) hooked up the sewer hose and watched those tanks empty out, well, I felt much better.

It’s one thing to know how things work in theory, but quite another to see them work in reality.

We rolled into San Antonio on our 8th day of travel and headed immediately to the nearest Camping World.  We left with a newly installed hatch cover over the bathroom.  They also patched together the water system.  Apparently our first tire catastrophe had damaged the water lines and a valve, which worsened as the days went by causing our water dilemma.

When we pulled into our space at San Antonio’s KOA campground that evening, I knew I was home.  And I would be home every night after that despite where we parked.  The feeling of home had nothing to do with place and everything to do with accepting the total experience.  To enjoy every single day.

Did we have more trials and tribulations along the way?  Yes, we did.  But the experiences and people we met made them insignificant.  I’ll likely drone on for a week or two longer about some of those people and places.  They are part of that big, beautiful, solid country I wrote about last week… that place that gave me so much hope.

Friday night Doug and I finished unloading the trailer.  I told him I actually missed living in it.  It’s kind of nice to go from place to place in a just right space with only the bare essentials.

It’s really only the essentials you need anyway.  Right?

He said he missed it too.

Saturday we hooked up one more time and hauled her to the RV repair shop.  Insurance will fix the body damage from the tire blowout.  The water system will be checked over.  It’ll be ready to roll another day.

In the meantime, we’ll enjoy the memories.

~~~~~ next week: some of my favorite characters




there is more

There’s a reason I’d never be a good reporter or travel writer.

It’s because I am a slow processor.  I’m a ponderer.  A million sights, sounds and experiences mill around in my head.  They marinate there until they can be processed through the heart and out onto paper (or screen).

I planned to blog on the go as we traveled the U.S. these last five-plus weeks.  But I was too busy oohing, ahhing and doing.

So now we’re home and I’ve got scribbled notes, business cards and an i-phone full of pictures.  It’s time to do something with them.  That will take time.

For today I just want to share the over-arching impression of what these several weeks showed to me…. and a suggestion for our elected officials.

First of all, I’m encouraged.

And I feel more blessed than ever to live in America.

When I left home in May I was burdened.  Undoubtedly the years of caregiving and my father’s death played a role in that.  But it was also the news, the political pundits on every channel, the pictures of masked people “demonstrating”, the big cities with their big problems, politicians who don’t seem to be living in the same country (or perhaps, planet!) that I do.  It was all too much.  I wondered what I would find out there.

I found beauty with some gritty problems.  I found good people and a few ornery ones.  I found people who don’t put masks on.  They don’t need masks.  They are too busy living a life they believe in, work hard for and fiercely protect.  They aren’t afraid.

I found a solid country that gives me hope.

We do need another Paul Harvey, however, so America can hear “the rest of the story”.  Because there very much is more to the story.

I think it would be a great idea for all members of congress to take a trip every couple of years.  They should have to travel the roads all around their own state for a month with a limited budget and no entourage.  They should have to deal with mechanical breakdowns, getting lost and not being able to take a shower every day.  They should have to talk to people, real people and experience how their constituents live.  Because honestly, they don’t know us.

And the political pundits on TV?  We just need to turn them off.  They were talking about the same thing last night as they were when I left town on May 22nd.

Doug and I stayed in a variety of RV parks along our way.  Some were very nice and had every convenience you might need.  Others were spartan.  One was a little scary!

This one in Tennessee was beautiful and offered the basic necessities.  The owner was an older gentlemen.  He had to sell off part of his property.  On what is left is this small RV park.  He also grows corn.  And he’s turned an old tobacco drying barn into an event center for family reunions and weddings.  He is probably working harder than he’d imagined at his age, but he appeared and sounded happy.  He lives in a beautiful place, he takes care of it and has what he needs.

Doug and I purposely drove on as many state roads as possible.  We wanted a better view of America than what is offered in the blur of interstate highways.  This choice caused us a few delays and frustrating moments, but I’ve no regrets.

There is so much more to America’s story.  And there is so much more to mine and Doug’s.  We just need to set a spell and talk…


the long haul

Yesterday marked our first full week on the road.  It’s been great.  It’s also been hard.

Much of the time it felt like the steep grade on highway 140 in eastern Oregon.  We made it but not without a great deal of sweat and wringing of hands…well, that was mostly me. 

This first week was marked by two trailer tire blow-outs, some emergency mechanical work, broken water lines, rough roads, heavy winds.  I could go on. 

More than once the words of Proverbs 16:9 came to mind, “in his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps”.

For all the planning and preparation we had done, our steps, or wheels rather, we’re definitely going in another direction.  

So what is this direction? And what is the purpose?

It’s been a daily unfolding.

If not for the first blow out we wouldn’t have met the local rancher who appeared, quite literally, out of no where with a cordless impact wrench to insist on helping us.  I wasn’t sure there were still people like that left in the world. But, yes. There are.

And if we hadn’t been delayed we wouldn’t have had the most spectacular steak dinner in Paisley, Oregon, where Doug ran into an old friend.

And we wouldn’t have stayed at peaceful Base Camp RV Park near Lakeview, Oregon.  Which turned out to be the perfect place to spend our first night on the road.

Because of delays we’ve missed connections and cancelled reservations.  We’ve been down highways we never intended to travel.  At one point I lamented of being off course.  But as a very wise friend posted on Facebook, “there is no off course, just other course”. 

She is right, of course.  I didn’t want to at first, but I like this “other” course.

I want to know more.

I’ve collected pictures and memories this first week.  As internet connection and time allow, I’ll keep sharing.

our yes and our no

I have said “no” when it was clearly the right thing.  I’ve also said “yes” to what should have been a clear “no” believing I could make it work anyway…with varying results.

I’ve said “yes” when it was clearly the right thing.  I’ve also said “no” to what should have been a clear “yes” believing I could make it work anyway…with varying results.

Quick decision making in a non-emergency situation is not what you will get from me.  I need to weigh the pros and cons, mull, consider, research and over-think.  And when the yes or no is finally given, it’s time for self doubt.

I don’t like this about myself.

It was both refreshing and convicting to read what Jesus said in Matthew 5:37, “all you need to say is simply “yes” or “no”; anything beyond this comes from the evil one”.  Clearly I have work to do.

For almost all the years of our marriage, Doug and I have talked of traveling around the USA.  Amazing places, new people and great food have beckoned like a fuzzy dream.  We started talking this dream into reality about a year ago.

I agreed that if nothing earth shattering happened with my Dad, then we could “probably, possibly, maybe” make it work.  I gave myself lots of room to say “no”.

After Dad entered hospice care we kept talking.   Even the hospice chaplain encouraged me to “live life”, “make plans”, “don’t stress” – – because none of us knows the timing of anything.  So I quietly, in faith, said yes.

And of course, Dad went home to Heaven on the first day of May.

God knows the timing of everything


It’s been a busy three weeks.  Lots of paperwork.  Lots of phone calls.  Lots of cleaning, sorting and arranging.  Not much time for thinking, or even grieving for my Dad.  Time will take care of that.

And now, we’re ready to go.

Monday morning we hit the road and this blog will become a sort of travel log.

We’ve got a wonderful friend holding down the fort at home with Mom.  Our gently used travel trailer is packed full.  I didn’t know which clothes to bring so I pretty much packed it all.  And our trusty “Black Beauty”, aka – the pick-up truck, is ready for the road.

We’re going to go where we want, when we want and see what we see, when we see it.  Plus, Doug has his list of barbecue joints to hit from Texas to Tennessee to North Carolina and back home again.  There may be a stop in Kansas City to complete the barbecue binge.

I’m not doubting my decision.  Not second-guessing my “yes”.  And I think Dad would be happy about this trip.  It’s something he talked of doing but never did.

He’ll be riding along in my heart.



on right timing and right people


My Dad died on May 1st.

I made, as they say, “final arrangements” for him on May 3rd.  And walked out of the funeral home with a veteran’s flag and his wedding ring.

It didn’t feel like a fair exchange.  Not fair at all.

My Dad was a good man and there is much I’d like to say about him.  I just haven’t been able to put the right words together yet.

But I do have words on putting the right people together.

A couple of days ago Mom brought me an old camera case of Dad’s.  Inside was a New Testament which had been hers as a girl.  Two addresses were listed on the inside cover, one was a house on Holly Park Circle in San Francisco.  The other was a house on Montana Street.  Both, she surmised, didn’t exist anymore.

She loved the house on Montana Street.  It was brand new.  Her father’s employer had built it for them, considering the rent part of my grandfather’s pay.  But they only lived there one year.  In 1941, Papa moved them all to Seattle.  He wanted to help the war effort so went to work at Boeing Field.

Just for fun I did a little research.  The little house on Holly Park Circle, all 844 square feet of it, is valued approximately $1.1 million!  (but, you know, that’s in San Francisco…so there’s that).  And the Montana Street house is also alive and well, coming in approximately $800,000.  Mom was shocked.

But the thing that stood out for me was the timing.  The house information states it was built in 1940, just as she said.  They lived in it one year.  Moved to Seattle.  She enrolled in high school.  Where she met Robert Jamison.  Who went to war.  Made it home.  Then began a new story with Opal.

Maybe I’m weird, but I’m always amazed to think of the places I’ve lived, the people I’ve known, the course changing decisions I’ve made… and how easily an outcome can be/has been re-directed.

So all I can say is, I’m thankful that my grandpa got a patriotic burr under his saddle and moved his family to Seattle at the right time.

I’m thankful that Robert and Opal got together.  I’m thankful for my life.

I’m thankful for these fun little bits of memory and history which soothe and heal.

And I’m thankful Dad’s suffering is done.



the day after… plus a week

It was a very good thing to have a place to go that morning.  The presidential election had robbed me of sleep but I didn’t want to keep looking at the blood bath on social media.  Besides, I wanted to see if the real world was still out there.  According to news reports, life was over as we’d known it.

It was mostly sunny when I left, the farmer up the road still had that one field of pumpkins to process and the line at Dutch Bros drive-thru looked normal.  I was happy to discover my phone GPS was still able to get me to a place I’d never been before.  Indeed, cyberspace was still functioning.

For the last five years I’ve said “no thanks” to the annual invitation to the luncheon hosted by the Family Caregiver Support Program.  My free time is limited and since I’m not a small-talk-luncheon-y type anyway, it just didn’t appeal to me.  This time I meant to say no, but yes came out instead.  I don’t know why.  But I’m glad.

It turned out there was nothing “small-talk” about the day.  There were representatives from support agencies with great information.  I re-connected with people I’d met when my mother-in-law was in hospice.  And there were a lot of people just like me… people who are trying their best to take care of a family member at home.

And best of all, not a word was spoken of the Donald/Hillary show.  Well, there was one ugly word.  By a haggard looking man sitting at my table.  We paid it no mind however, as his day started hard.  He’d already had a face to face with a police officer called by a “concerned” neighbor when she saw his Alzheimer patient wife running down the street in her nightgown and assumed she was neglected… all because he dared take a few minutes to jump in the shower before help arrived so he could take a couple of hours off to get more help.

Yep, the real world is still out there.  But it doesn’t always work as well as the GPS on my phone.

This week I got to thinking about my life span in relation to our presidents.

When I was born Harry Truman was in office.  From Harry to Barack there have been twelve presidents.

From the time I was legal to vote there have been eight presidents.  My vote assisted in electing only two of those eight.  Two!

Somehow, I’ve managed to survive all these years with only two presidents that I really, really liked… and during the times of the other six, never once did I feel the need to block a major highway or destroy property.

Watching Martha Raddatz wimper on election night was a little nauseating.  So worried she was for the mothers who are scared for their children to serve in a Trump military.  (Yea, I think that reporting might have been a little biased, Martha)

I actually remember feeling that way myself when I voted for Ross Perot, but Bill Clinton was elected.  I had a son enlisting in the army.  And goodness… if the man couldn’t control his personal life or even his personal body parts, why should he lead my child?

But my son did just fine.  All of them did.  And Bill had nothing to do with it.  It was their own personal goals, values and training that guided.  It was the attitude and choice to not quit when things were hard and painful that carried them.

The president, the economics of the day, the wars… yes, they have an impact.  But it’s the million little ways a person chooses to live each day that makes or breaks a life.

Not a president.

Which brings me back to the group of caregivers I spent that day with… a granddaughter who had quit her job to take care of grandpa… an 86 year-old man whose wife died 10 years ago, but he comes to lunch every year to encourage people… and eat, of course.  They all had interesting stories.  Hard stories.  But not defeated stories.

The guest speaker sat at my table for lunch.  “What do you want to hear about next”, she asked me.

“How do I keep my father clean without the drama, and save what’s left of my sense of smell.”

Everyone at the table laughed.  She smiled and said she could help me with that.  And judging by the oohs, aahs and mad note taking in the room, most folks had the same challenge.

I’d shared time and space that day with people who are choosing a hard way of life.  On purpose.  A way that is full of unknowns, trying and failing and keeping on.  I left encouraged and uplifted.  It washed the ugly TV drama right out of my mind.

Real people.  Real life.  Real hope.  It really is out there.  I keep praying our politicians will become real one day too.


He made the world to be lived in, not to be a place of empty chaos.  Isaiah 45:18


how faith and politics can come together

Judas betrayed Jesus.

Jesus was crucified.

Judas hung himself.

And the 12 apostles became 11.

How confused and overwhelmed they must have been.  For three years Judas had eaten with them, slept with them, traveled with them, watched Jesus walk on water with them.

How could he do this thing?

As they waited and wondered what next to do, Peter spoke of ancient scripture that predicted this very event, and also that they would need to find a replacement for Judas.  Their mission must continue.

The Book of Acts tells us they gathered to pray.  This was a decision they needed to get right.

“you know every heart. Show us which of these men you have chosen as an apostle to replace Judas the traitor in this ministry, for he has deserted us…”  Acts 1: 24,25

….. then they cast lots.

They voted.

When our presidential election cycles occur, our convictions and beliefs bubble to the surface.  We argue with each other at work, at the coffee shop, within our families and even in the church.  Some even join in large, noisy protest.

But when the election is over, most of us go back to “normal” life and assume someone else will carry the torch.  It’s convenient to lay down the battle flag.

I think the disciples’ plan was better.

They prayed.  They voted.  They carried on with their mission.

Perhaps that issue that gets me riled up every four years is actually something I need to get actively involved in.  Maybe there is something that eats at you.

If we took an issue and pressed in on it every day, not just once every four years… if we actually pressed our elected representatives to do what we elected them to do… maybe, just maybe we won’t end up in such an ugly place four years from now.

Pray. Vote. Carry on the mission.







light on the horizon

I don’t have words for this space lately.  At least not words fit to publish.

Maybe it’s media overload.  Maybe it’s storms and loss and hurting people.  Maybe it’s too much political trash talk.

All I know is last Friday, Doug and I took the long way home after a few days away from normal. It was good and peaceful and rainy.  And I don’t mind the rain.  I’m good with that.

We stopped to eat.  We stopped to shop.  We stopped so I could take a picture here and there.  But mostly I watched the sea.

And eventually, when the rain lifted a bit, I saw the light.

There had to be twenty people milling about the wayside.  When we got back in the car Doug asked if I had a good shot of the lighthouse.

“what lighthouse?”

I was there for the light.

So twenty people are looking at or taking pictures of the lighthouse to the north.  Meanwhile, I am mesmerized by the light in the west.

I’ll take a picture of the lighthouse next time.

Tonight there will be another presidential debate.  And life goes on for millions of Americans who just want to live a good and decent life.

I don’t know what lies ahead for my country, but I do know this:  I serve a God who has more wealth than Donald and more power than Hillary.  My future rests with Him.  And I’m good with that.

Just like I am with the rain.