The last six days have been what I imagine to be ordinary in a life-path not taken.
Day one, driving down to see our son Caleb who is in the army. He greets us with dinner salads and gives us his bed, we wake up to walk a few blocks into town and stop for coffee and browsing the farmer's market. We drive his usual commute to base, past buildings where he normally attends classes or signs in and out, to a museum dedicated to Airborne and Special Operations. There we can browse history and ponder that someone first thought of deploying troops by parachuting out of planes less than a hundred years ago; we can hear stories of the current training. We end the day with an hour-and-a-half drive to our daughter Julia's apartment, making dinner together.
Day two, church with our two middle children, worship and meditation. Then my sister stops by with her husband and son on their way back to their home, and we hop in cars to drive to downtown Greensboro for the one-year party celebrating a social enterprise sort of French restaurant. Julia's room mate works here, and the bold dream of affordable excellent food created and served by people with different-abilities, providing not just a job but a sense of accomplishment and purpose, inspires us all. Julia's church has an afternoon Swahili service (!) which feels like home. And afterwards the diverse congregation carries tables into a long line for the annual harvest dinner, celebrating the garden project Julia works on that has reclaimed land for nourishment and beauty. 20% of their produce is donated to combat hunger.
Days 3-6 find us in West Virginia, at our farm, with Luke and Abby and their new puppy Botu. This is their week of vacation, and they have taken part of it with Abby's family and for the upcoming wedding reception. But in the midst of that we get three full days of normal life. Making pizza, making gourmet tacos and pastries, hiking in the woods and dipping in the chilly autumnal river. Brilliant blue sun gives way to leaf must and misting skies. We talk, they work on studies and projects, there are bike rides and coffee. Mostly there is the delight that only a puppy can bring with his whole-body quiver of joy, his antics, his exploration, his snuggles. Caleb re-joins us for the last day, which as Abby points out brings out the best in both brothers.
Six ordinary days, the kind of life I imagine other families experience on weekends or evenings. Pruning trees or washing dishes, rolling dough and hanging up laundry.
Only in our life, these days are fractured by thousands of miles and months of absence. We took the ordinary from our parents by moving to a far country. And now we take it from our young adult children by staying there.
So when those days can be wrested from the flooding speed of time, they are beautifully extraordinary. And perhaps all I can say is that the ache of the absence of days like these, and the depth of their goodness when they come, causes a deep chord to resonate. So that we know we are created for something like this, for connection, for living in proximity to those we love, for sharing sunshine and red leaves and good food with them. And while we love the independence and courage of our kids, and we love the deeply meaningful work God keeps in front of us, those realities come with a cost and the cost is real.
It was an extraordinary event that called us across the ocean this time, so the final four days of our ten-day visit will be rich as well--a weekend of celebrating Luke and Abby's wedding with a reception in Annapolis, a visit to Grace church and a day's Ebola vaccine follow-up at the NIH. All very good things. But the six days of ordinary are what I think I will treasure most as we go back, and those are the memories I think will sustain us with the taste of the presence of God.
Day one, driving down to see our son Caleb who is in the army. He greets us with dinner salads and gives us his bed, we wake up to walk a few blocks into town and stop for coffee and browsing the farmer's market. We drive his usual commute to base, past buildings where he normally attends classes or signs in and out, to a museum dedicated to Airborne and Special Operations. There we can browse history and ponder that someone first thought of deploying troops by parachuting out of planes less than a hundred years ago; we can hear stories of the current training. We end the day with an hour-and-a-half drive to our daughter Julia's apartment, making dinner together.
Day two, church with our two middle children, worship and meditation. Then my sister stops by with her husband and son on their way back to their home, and we hop in cars to drive to downtown Greensboro for the one-year party celebrating a social enterprise sort of French restaurant. Julia's room mate works here, and the bold dream of affordable excellent food created and served by people with different-abilities, providing not just a job but a sense of accomplishment and purpose, inspires us all. Julia's church has an afternoon Swahili service (!) which feels like home. And afterwards the diverse congregation carries tables into a long line for the annual harvest dinner, celebrating the garden project Julia works on that has reclaimed land for nourishment and beauty. 20% of their produce is donated to combat hunger.
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Days 3-6 find us in West Virginia, at our farm, with Luke and Abby and their new puppy Botu. This is their week of vacation, and they have taken part of it with Abby's family and for the upcoming wedding reception. But in the midst of that we get three full days of normal life. Making pizza, making gourmet tacos and pastries, hiking in the woods and dipping in the chilly autumnal river. Brilliant blue sun gives way to leaf must and misting skies. We talk, they work on studies and projects, there are bike rides and coffee. Mostly there is the delight that only a puppy can bring with his whole-body quiver of joy, his antics, his exploration, his snuggles. Caleb re-joins us for the last day, which as Abby points out brings out the best in both brothers.
Six ordinary days, the kind of life I imagine other families experience on weekends or evenings. Pruning trees or washing dishes, rolling dough and hanging up laundry.
Only in our life, these days are fractured by thousands of miles and months of absence. We took the ordinary from our parents by moving to a far country. And now we take it from our young adult children by staying there.
So when those days can be wrested from the flooding speed of time, they are beautifully extraordinary. And perhaps all I can say is that the ache of the absence of days like these, and the depth of their goodness when they come, causes a deep chord to resonate. So that we know we are created for something like this, for connection, for living in proximity to those we love, for sharing sunshine and red leaves and good food with them. And while we love the independence and courage of our kids, and we love the deeply meaningful work God keeps in front of us, those realities come with a cost and the cost is real.
It was an extraordinary event that called us across the ocean this time, so the final four days of our ten-day visit will be rich as well--a weekend of celebrating Luke and Abby's wedding with a reception in Annapolis, a visit to Grace church and a day's Ebola vaccine follow-up at the NIH. All very good things. But the six days of ordinary are what I think I will treasure most as we go back, and those are the memories I think will sustain us with the taste of the presence of God.
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