Archive for the The Journey Category

The sparkling waters of the Meramec River dance over rocks and silt as they filter through Missouri. They begin as springs east of Salem and are aqua blue as they shimmer in the sun. By the time they reach St. Louis they are distinctly darker as they pick up mud when they join the Bourbeuse River near Moselle. Still, some people would argue that they never shone brighter than they did on the shores of Times Beach in the years before heartache flooded the town.

I recently toured what is left of the resort town. I stepped inside the Route 66 state park museum and read a little bit of history and saw a few photographs. I reviewed the giant plat map which looks not unlike a big green piece of pie situated close to Eureka, Missouri. I am in the company of my friend, Stefanie, who once lived there and who has filled my heart with wonder for the tiny town that is no longer there. This small “mausoleum” is not sturdy enough to hold all the love each resident had for that small slice of heaven. No one can truly capture with words what that place meant to them. For my friend, it was simply home.

She was there in the winter of 1982 when the flood waters rolled in and tells the harrowing story of barely escaping. Their house was surrounded by the churning Meramec as it swelled over its banks. They lost everything they had, which is how they ended up at Wal-Mart—wet and soggy—in search of dry socks and shoes.

We drove under the highway as we entered Route 66 State Park—what used to be Times Beach. Cyclists and joggers passed our car on pristine, paved roads. It was a sunny, blue sky kind of day and we were thankful for air conditioning. I scanned the swampy pools next to the road for frogs while my friend tried to find where her house used to be. I tried to envision what it once looked like while my friend described her childhood, running down the hot streets to the river to swim. It was the kind of place I would have liked to live—a small town filled with relatively poor people who knew how to spend the only real currency they had in abundance; love.

Stefanie asked if I wanted to take any pictures. I said no. Everything I wanted to see was torn down years ago. I tried to imagine myself in that place when I was her age, riding my bike behind the truck that sprayed oil on the dirt roads to keep the dust down. I tried to picture the stone and brick house she once lived in but had to abandon the year she turned 13. I tried to picture her friends—the ones she loved so dearly—and her brave parents who fought not only the murky waters but the media spectacle that blocked the only way out of town and forced them to abandon their vehicle in the rising water. I felt the anger, the disappointment, and the shame she experienced in the aftermath as they tried to find a place to live. I sensed the horror of losing all sense of stability—to the point that even though she continued to go to school, she failed the 8^th grade.

I could not help but think of the refugees who flee war torn areas in search of safety. Do they feel like my friend who had to grieve the sudden loss of her childhood? Do they cling to each other with hope in the face of tremendous adversity? Do they try to go back years later to try to rekindle the sense of home they lost even though there is no physical structure left to experience? For those who don’t know the story of that place, it wasn’t only the flood that ruined the town. Sadly, the former residents are still managing the pain and sorrow caused by disease and death of those they love. One of Stefanie’s close friends passed away two months ago—37 years after the floor—from a rare form of cancer caused by a terrible poison. She still cannot speak of the loss without tears.

When I think about Times Beach, I consider how God views men who prey on innocent people.

“As for the scoundrel—his devices are evil; he plans wicked schemes to ruin the poor with lying words, even when the plea of the needy is right.” Isaiah 32:7

God hates the wicked machinations of men. In fact, the bible is one long story of a God who loves justice and—finding none—stretches out his own arm to save the people he loves. I don’t intend to turn the story of Times Beach into a bible lesson. Forgive me if it comes across this way. It is only that as I crossed into that magical place, I could not help but think about what it will be one day. I was quietly clinging to the promise that Jesus makes—“Behold, I am making all things new”. (Revelation 21:5) The Apostle John’s vision of a new heaven and a new earth gives me real hope I can cling to. I believe that one day Times Beach will be a wholly clean and safe place to live. There will be picnics and hula hoops and people roller skating without fear as they embrace their friends knowing that the former things have passed away. The Meramec River will shine in exquisite beauty—a river we have never known this side of death. It will be free of pollution and trash and fear from drowning. It will be wonderful.

I suppose this kind of writing will make some people wonder about my mental capacity. Still, without the hope of God, I could not bear to think about the tragedies of this broken world. I know the Bible is just a book but I believe God is real and those really are His words. I cling to the promises he makes and hope with joy for a future where death and dying will be no more.

The sun still rises and sets over Times Beach. The Meramec River still flows over the banks and people can still fish and swim. But all the houses are gone. The streets are gone. And even the annual reunion of former residents can’t recapture the life they had in bygone years. But I take immense comfort in the words of the prophet Isaiah when he writes of this great God who created that wonderful place.

“I am the Lord, and there is no other, besides me there is no God; I equip you, though you do not know me, that people may know, from the rising of the sun and from the west, that there is none besides me; I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form light and create darkness, I make well-being and create calamity, I am the Lord, who does all these things.” Isaiah 45:5-7

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God. They collapse and fall, but we rise and stand upright.”  – Psalm 20:7-8

Thunder is always ominous, but never more so when the skies are blue. The deep rumble sets a heart on edge, especially if one is knee deep in a river. For every peel, a question explodes in the mind. Will the storm blow over? Do I have time to grab my things? How long will it last?

When the dark clouds blow in and lightening begins to flash, the questions grow darker still. What if it strikes a tree? What if it hits me? Will I be electrocuted? Will it hurt or will I simply die? Will my family even miss me when I’m gone? Or will they celebrate a reprieve from green vegetables with takeout every night?

I contemplate these things as I fish on the Borbeuse River this week. Storms blow in as I try to relax and enjoy a few minutes away from my daily routines. Instead of rushing to work out, I sleep in and stretch. I take a short cut through the woods and get lost in a creek. I stroke a patch of moist moss and chase a lizard into the undergrowth. I wade into the warm river water and watch a fresh water muscle puff water from its spout. It moves through the sand a centimeter and I wonder how long until a greedy raccoon scoops it from the water and indulges in fresh flesh.

We head back to my grandpa’s house when the lightning flashes. Still, I rush to the lake so I can cast my white spinner across the ripples and into the cold deep. I snag a few times but finally catch something as cold drops splash onto my forehead. I pull out a fat sunfish but throw him back as the white-hot electricity pulses around me. I holler at my children. “Danger! Take cover!” And we run to the house as the heavens let loose. We stand there panting while gray curtains of water rattle against the ground. My grandpa leans forward in his chair and says, “Looks like we’re going to get some rain.”

We take advantage of the weather by catching up and reminiscing. My grandpa is nearly 85 years old and a shadow of the man he used to be. He can no longer dig fence posts and bale hay. Instead, he struggles to walk to the bathroom with his walker and to hear simple phrases. Every sentence begins with a loud, “What?” as he strains to understand what was just said. Still, I enjoy his company immensely. He verbally remembers the many trips we took in his boat up river in search of the big bass, and the nights spent camped out on the sandy banks of the Borbeuse River. “There was always a storm brewing,” he says. “We had to keep one eye on the sky at all times.” I listen closely in case there’s a story developing that I haven’t heard before.

I am not disappointed this trip. He tells the story of the time he and my grandmother went to camp on the river and left my little uncle Denny in the car to finish a nap. When he went to check on him, Denny was gone. His little foot prints in the dirt indicated he had wandered off into 50 acres of corn. My grandpa finally found him but said he’d never forget it. “I never took my eyes off those kids again.”

My uncle Tim is in from Cape Girardeau. He has the same idea I do—escape the daily grind with a good old-fashioned sweat. He grabs a weed eater and makes short work of the tall grass that has accumulated around the small pond. He edges the sidewalks in front of the house and unearths the stone path that leads from the house to the road. I don’t know how long it took my grandpa to build that little stretch of stones. I only know he dug it by hand and filled it with large rocks he took from the river. Tim said that next time he’d bring the Round-Up, an idea my uncle Mike firmly disdained.

At times our conversations turn political—a topic I generally despise—but I so enjoy talking with my family members I contribute to the best of my ability. I have always admired my uncles. I think they are the most handsome, the most winsome, and the most brave men I know. My father’s brothers are broad shouldered and have dark hair like my grandmother. They are fishermen, hunters, and fierce protectors of their families. My uncle Tim shows me pictures of the house he is rehabbing for his daughter. He is so like my dad and also different. When I tell my grandfather how great they are he says of his children, “There’s not a bad one in the bunch.” And he’s right. I think just as highly of my courageous and beautiful aunts.

Of course, the worries come out in our conversations too. Health issues. Money. One of my cousins will lose her job when the company she works for closes its doors in a few weeks. The roof my grandfather paid good money for is leaking and the contractor who put it on won’t return a call. Uncle Tim says, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.” While we quietly wonder if cancer is the next chocolate in the box and desperately pray it is not, we remember Grandma, who passed into glory this time last year. I see her when my aunts and uncles smile, but I hear her voice when Uncle Tim instructs me not to do any more dishes because he will take care of that. I didn’t make breakfast this morning because he made it before I got up. Because of him, I can smell her eggs over easy too.

I stand in the river again and stare are the white, fluffy clouds. They are fluent; moving and morphing. Their beauty confounds me and I want them to freeze in time just like I want my cousins to stop growing. I want to go back and take one more trip up the river with my grandpa. I want him to show me how to tie the lure, jig the bait worm, and trick that big bass into biting. I want one more dip in the river with my grandma. One more hug. I need time to stop moving so fast. Because even though I’m in the best shape of my life, I can’t seem to catch my breath.

We are all worrying over the future and the pain we know will come. The sting of death lurks much closer now than it used to. We talk about the hordes of wasps that guard the entrance to Grandpa’s old corn crib/workshop and I shudder. My son holds ice to his leg where one of the wasps stung him and I wonder if there is an ice cube strong enough to dull the throb of the sting that is sure to pierce our hearts. And then I remember the words that soothe even the most acute aches.

“I tell you this, brothers: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable put on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?’ The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 1 Corinthians 15:50-58

The thunder storms roll out and the blue skies appear again. The earth is fresh and new. The ground is wet. The frogs are chirruping. The hummingbirds pause to sip nectar while I watch with wonder. And that is when I accept the fact that yes, the “Good byes” are coming. But more importantly, so are the “Welcome homes!”

The robin sings cheerily from atop my roof. His rusty red breast heaves as his throat swells, and the music he makes is like water chirping over stones in an early spring creek. In the background the white clouds are piled up like mountains against the blue sky. Dusk harkens. But for a moment I can pretend time isn’t slipping away and I have eternity to stand, and breathe and listen.

The earth turns and the clouds take on an amber hue. I think about my favorite recurring dream. I am flying through pink clouds and they are actually cotton candy. I can tasty their tangy sweetness as I soar through them. Alas, tonight I can only watch with my feet planted on the ground since gravity has yet to make an exception for me.

I stand and consider the seemingly meaningless details that make up my frazzled life. I crawl into bed every night–exhausted–and pray that tomorrow will find me rested and ready for the day. But the frenzy of activities that must happen before 7:00am often make me feel like I’ll never catch up on that rest I am always chasing. I seem to spend my minutes hurrying from one task to the next but never feeling satisfied in the work I have done. I exercise so that I will chase the clouds from my brain and the fat from my belly but they are still there. I zip to work through traffic and to a job where I rush from one task to the next in a flurry of anxiety–fearful that I may miss a detail that will cause the people I work with to be frustrated with me. This constant pressure–the terror that I’m not doing something right–has taken it’s toll. The tired feeling lingers, and–like a wool sweater can suffocate when the temperature rises–I’m smothering.

I was recently reading a blog about patience. I have been praying to God a lot lately, and while I know He always hears me, I have struggled to sense His presence. I wondered how long I will continue to feel this dragging, lingering sadness. It seems like years since I enjoyed a happy, carefree and dreamy day–a day where I didn’t pretend to be cheery while inside I’m soggy, like a gravy covered biscuit. As I read the blog on patience I thought to myself that I really just want to read a story about someone who is waiting patiently for God and finding comfort. I want to hear the sweet sounding words of a friend saying, “God finally answered my prayers and I’m so encouraged!” I want to see with my eyes the healed body of a sick or broken friend so I can remember that He truly is not far from any of us. But I couldn’t find one so I decided to write one instead.

Dean Koontz wrote a wonderful little book titled “Bliss to You.” I like this book so much that I downloaded it on Audible so I can listen when I ride my bike. I also own a hard copy. This book contains 8 steps to finding bliss. The second step is Beauty. In the audible version, narrated by Teryn McKewin, she reads Trixie’s words with joyful inflection, “To find true bliss, you must see beauty of natural world all around you. Beauty helps calm you. Bad day at work, you almost assaulted fellow worker with stapler. Spend evening in garden, star-gazing, cuddling puppy, will lose homicidal urge.” She continues, “To see beauty of world, you must really, really, really look. Not look through. Not look at. Must look into.”

I stood in my front yard tonight and watched the robin sing. He was just a plain old robin by casual observance, but when I looked “into” I saw a magnificent creature–a king by all accounts–calling his court to come and bow at his feet. Even as I write this he is still singing, and my heart is ten shades brighter. And then there are those cotton candy clouds! To watch them floating casually across the sky–darkening as they move–is to experience, well, as Trixie would say, bliss!

These fleeting moments are what truly living is all about. No matter the pain, sorrow, or anxiety we face, we can always find beauty around us if we stop to look “into”. I suppose this is what the Psalmist was talking about when he wrote, “The heavens declare the glory of God and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.” (Psalm 19:1) In the middle of my soggy puddle, I experienced the glory of God and it was magnificent. Today, whatever you are facing, you can too—just stop and look “into”.