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Slice of Life Day 29 of 31: Journeys

Fourteen years ago today, we got married. The journey of a marriage is unlike any other trip we’ll ever take in this life. Our journey began……well, with a wreck.

We met in church, set up by a triple team of his mother, his brother, and my college roommate. They predicted some hopeful chemistry between us.

One Sunday after church in April 2007, I saw him striding my way across the parking lot, smiling the smile of a happy man, his hand extended to shake mine and introduce himself. He had on the second most hideous tie I’d ever seen (the first being one made of rabbit fur by the wife of a deacon that had prompted bowed heads and averted eyes like witnesses to a train wreck when the deacon had turned around to face the congregation holding the offering plate after the Doxology). It was abundantly clear to me that with a tie like this with a pair of tigers emblazoned on it, there was no other love interest on the sidelines giving him any assistance on what not to wear.

But the confident smile and the way he carried himself told me I might want to meet him for lunch at Papa Willie’s Barbecue in Williamson, Georgia as he offered. Lunch turned into dinner before he asked if I wanted to go on a second date to ride through the rural countryside on his motorcycle to see the beauty of the county’s back roads. I reluctantly agreed, and just as I’d imagined, the second date was the cut point. My own fears and insecurities, inner demons I couldn’t ignore, shut all future promise down. I rejected a third date there on the concrete picnic table in Williamson as we drank orange Gatorade.

A week later, as my son’s graduating class threw their caps in the air, I got a text from a friend.

Have you heard about the wreck? Call me.

I had a four hour drive home that night, long enough to hear all about the car that had crashed through the Mojo’s Wings restaurant window and pinned his parents underneath it as they’d sat near the window holding hands across the table. The window had sounded like an explosion as it shattered, shooting shards of glass in all directions, cutting his face as he was placing his order at the counter. Miraculously, no one was killed, as horrific as it had been.

My friend and I organized our plan to bring a meal of raisin ham, scalloped pineapple, and sweet tea to the family as part of our church’s meal train once they were all home from the hospital.

He was staying with his parents, assisting them as they recovered, and avoided my eyes after greeting us and thanking us for the food. As I studied him, I saw a man, injured, taking care of his parents through a nightmare of a freak accident. A man who appreciated the beauty of the countryside so much that he had made it a date. A man divorced for sixteen years, whose mother had kept telling him that God would bring him the woman right for him- not to settle along the way out of impatience. And I knew in my heart I had acted irrationally by turning down that third date.

I got home and sent him a text asking if he wanted to talk. He did. So we talked on the phone late into the night – about the accident, about the graduation, about family, about aspirations and goals and dreams. And we planned a third date to the Griffin City Park, where we sat on the swing and talked all afternoon about more of everything. One thing was crystal clear: he communicated. A lot.

And so we continued going on the kinds of dates where we interacted- dinner, the aquarium, the park, long drives, festivals, dog walks, the simple places filled with beauty – not the kind where we watched a movie. We took an active interest in each other.

On that swing in the Griffin City Park is right where he proposed to me on February 16, 2008, with a smashed Cracker Jack ring I’d found in the parking lot of a Gordon Lightfoot concert. He’d somehow fished this mangled piece of metal out of my pocket without my knowing, resurrected it, breathed new life into something once twisted and smashed and flattened beyond recognition, and proposed with it- promising me a lifetime of love and commitment, telling me he wanted us to go together to pick out a better ring.

Down on one knee in a royal blue button down shirt and a pair of jeans, he asked me to be his wife as a matching royal blue car (unplanned) drove past with a teenage boy hanging out the passenger side window, celebrating and fist pumping the air as I said “YES!”

And we married in a small church ceremony just over a month later.

I thought about that tiger tie long after I’d walked down the aisle wearing a pair of strappy sandals I’d spray painted to match the shimmery glitter in my gown, after I’d held my head out the window of the car to dry my hair on the way to the altar, where someone told me I needed lipstick before walking down the aisle. What free-spirited hippie wearing spray painted glittery wedding sandals with wind-blown hair and passing thoughts of lipstick can judge a tacky tiger tie? (A tie he still wears, a tie that has grown on me).

Today, I’m grateful that at least one of us remembers it’s our wedding anniversary. Because on year ten, he sat bolt upright in bed when we were just on the verge of sleep, and asked, “Do you remember what today is?”

Genesis 2:24 

Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.

Slice of Life Day 28 of 31: Journeys (my March theme)

I’ve done some traveling on foot, on bicycle, (attempted) unicycle, by motorcycle, by car, by bus, by plane and train, by ferry, by boat, by tram, by subway and trolley. But perhaps the most unique way I’ve ever traveled is by submarine.

We took my in-laws on a fiftieth anniversary cruise a couple of years before my mother-in-law died of brain cancer in February 2021, and at the time of the cruise, she had already begun growing unsteady on her feet. We had wondered, but we didn’t yet know why. We looked for ways to take excursions and still get the full benefit of enjoyment in Cozumel and Grand Cayman. We’d worn shirts identifying us as a family in celebration, and that’s exactly what we intended to do, despite the nagging fears that a far more difficult journey lay ahead.

Cozumel is known for some of the most beautiful coral reefs in all the world, and although we were not able to see them by snorkeling, we arranged a submarine tour to enjoy the sights beneath the surface of the clear blue waters. We’d earned fancy certificates with all the thrill of certified tourists who had braved the depths of the waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

I reflect today on the life of my mother in law, who never met a stranger, who embraced life wholeheartedly and who instilled in my husband all the qualities of being the fine gentleman that he is. The truth is, the rest of us would have preferred snorkeling, swimming in the warm waters, the up-closeness of the beautiful fishes and colorful reefs. But on that day, we found a way to all be together and enjoy the scenery in an even more unique way – the way of a family in celebration!

“Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” – Exodus 20:12

Slice of Life Day 27 of 31: Journeys (my March theme)

Today my son turns 33. He’s my middle child of my octane trio, born in the years 87, 89, and 93 – the gas pump years. Today, we celebrate his annual journey around the sun.

As a child, he wore his cowboy boots on the wrong feet and rarely took them off. He played with his toy horses for hours on end and was our little hoot owl who almost never slept. He rode his horse Slick in the Bluffton Christmas parade each year, sporting his chaps. And after long days of camping trail rides with his grandparents, he’d return to camp to barrel race.

He is not a connoisseur of foods outside the mainstream menu, once threatening to turn us in to the captain of a ship when he found out he had eaten a piece of octopus we had put on his plate.

My son is an athlete – a soccer player turned runner whose sport took him through college to meet the woman of his dreams. He married her on a mountaintop in Sevierville, Tennessee, under an arbor her father made from the trees on that land. Her grandfather and his grandfather, both pastors, tied the knot extra-tight. Three labs and four children later, they live a stunningly beautiful but simple life on the marsh in South Carolina, kayaking and fishing and spending time together in ways that matter. He builds houses, but knows the difference between a house and a home and makes his family his priority.

He once called me to ask my favorite Bible verse. “Hebrews 11:1,” I told him – “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

A few days later, he sent me a picture of his tattoo that says “Faith.” He is the last of my trio to be inked.

I’m so proud of him, of them. Behind every good man is an amazing woman – and oh, we are so richly blessed by her. She is beautiful inside and out, and we stand with her today as we celebrate our Marshall. Happy birthday, Son!

Hebrews 11:1 

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

Psalm 127:3-5 

Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one’s youth. Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them! He shall not be put to shame when he speaks with his enemies in the gate.

Slice of Life Day 26 of 31: Journeys (my March theme)

If you’ve ever read the book Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg or seen the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, you may recognize the photograph below as the Whistle Stop Cafe in the tiny town of Juliette, Georgia.

Some of our favorite journeys we take are camping trips that are less than an hour from our home. Dames Ferry Campground is situated on Lake Juliette about 20 minutes north of Macon, Georgia and just over an hour south of Atlanta. Whenever we camp here, we like to watch the movie again before stopping in for a plate of fried green tomatoes (we still haven’t eaten Bennett’s Barbecue, but that day is coming).

After we’ve shared a basket of these, we ease on back over to the lake and put the life jackets on the dogs for an evening kayak paddle on the lake to work off our dinner. It’s one of the few fried foods we believe to be worth the indulgence.

With summer coming and the tomato plants going in the ground soon, you may want to try these delicious vegetables. Even if you don’t plan to be in Juliette, Georgia anytime soon, you’re still in luck. Amazon sells the batter mix!

And if you’re still in the mood for an even more classic Southern tradition, stop and get yourself a bottled Coca Cola and take a big swig. Then, pour in a half bag of salted peanuts and drink up! It’s the perfect storm of salty sweetness.

Colossians 2:16-17 

Therefore let no one pass judgment on you in questions of food and drink, or with regard to a festival or a new moon or a Sabbath. These are a shadow of the things to come, but the substance belongs to Christ.

Slice of Life Day 25 of 31: Journeys (my March theme)

Travelers’ tales are classic Chaucer! Connecting with others by sharing about all the journeys we’ve taken, our traditions, our love of food and pets and family, and all of the deep points of connecting often occurs more naturally when traveling with complete strangers than with those we know in our own hometowns – at least it seems that way for me! I was thrilled to meet this group of educators, all training to be EF Tour Leaders, as we prepared to lead our own travel groups the summer before the world shut down during the Covid pandemic. Our proverbial wagon to Canterbury was rolling with travel tales as we sat around tables sharing meals and experiences we’d had throughout the world.

Our Tour Guide each day was Silke, a native of Berlin who guided us through the city’s history and landmarks and shared her best travel tip for keeping large groups together in the context of our real time travels. All through the streets of the city, she held Squeaky high and squeezed it repetitively to keep us together. Where other guides used brightly colored umbrellas, we came to prefer the quirky duck because we could hear Squeaky better than we could keep track of an umbrella in the thick crowds no matter how festively it may have been decorated – plus, it was amusing watching crowd reactions and facial expressions to a grown woman squeaking a duck all through the streets.

The subway was a prime example of Squeaky’s ability to keep us together better than an umbrella; when we couldn’t all fit in the same Subway cars, we knew how many stops to make and then we would hear the duck as we exited the train and made our way toward the squeaks.

The energy of enjoying life and making the most of it, the stories that happen along the way, the shared travel hacks, and the fellowship with others always keeps me looking forward to the next trip. I belong to several Facebook travel groups and frequently scan Pinterest for the latest travel ideas, but nothing compares to the heightened awareness of fully absorbing the details of the world like sharing our travel adventures with fellow travelers. Please join us at ethicalela.com throughout the month of April, and come share your own “quirky story” or travel adventure (or both) on April 11!

Judges 19:17

And he lifteth up his eyes, and seeth the man, the traveller, in a broad place of the city, and the aged man saith, ‘Whither goest thou? and whence comest thou?

Slice of Life Day 24 of 31: Journeys (my March theme)

I recently went to see the movie Redeeming Love, and an avalanche of memories of Ketchikan, Alaska came rushing forward from my week in May 1998 spent learning about life in the Gold Rush days of Alaska. Women did what they had to do to survive, and the lines were heavily slanted toward survival over living. Dolly Arthur’s house along Creek Street offered a sobering glimpse of life known to the women of those days in Ketchikan. We didn’t stick around this former red light district too long with the kids – we moved on to some G-Rated stories.

In the rainiest city in the state, we were pleased that our excursion to Totem Bight State Park did not get cancelled; we’d looked forward to seeing the totem poles carved by the Tlingit tribe.

Each of the totem poles tells a story that you can read here, and there is also a map of the village as well.

Pole 10 is Raven at the Head of Nass – a chief in a dance hat tops the pole. At the bottom is the chief, Raven-at-the-Head-of-Nass. Raven stole daylight from Chief. The small human figure represents ancestors of the Raven clan who were happy to have daylight. The space between the figures represents respect for the chief.

Pole 3, Man Wearing Bear Hat, is a man of the Bear Clan wearing a large
carved wooden hat with a bear’s head, its brim surrounded by painted whales. The hat was worn on storytelling occasions.

As we listened to the tour guide tell the totem stories, I felt a deep connection to the power of the oral tradition of storytelling. I thought of its impact throughout history and its importance to future generations. The preservation of stories through totems and monuments combines art and reverence for what is held sacred. The experience here in this Native American village was spiritual and moving.

I reflected on my recent afternoon at the Azalea Storytelling Festival in Lagrange, Georgia and the entertainment and messages that are so powerfully felt when a human voice is sharing lessons through story. What a gift – one I need to savor more frequently.

Matt 13:34

All these things Jesus said to the people in the form of stories; and without a story he said nothing to them.

Slice of Life Day 23 of 31: Journeys (my March theme)

“He was a newcomer in the land, a chechaquo, and this
was his first winter.” – To Build a Fire, Jack London

The coldest I have ever been in my entire life, by far, was in Skagway, Alaska on the side of a mountain on a Gold Rush tour in May 1998. Winds whipped bitterly from the snow-covered trees, stinging my nose, chapping my lips and cheeks, chilling my ears as if I weren’t bundled up in a coat, sweater, gloves and hat – or anything else – to keep out the cold. That was the day I became an honorary member of the Arctic Brotherhood and understood for the first time, for one fleeting moment, what cold meant. I was, as Jack London would say, a chechaquo.

We left our stateroom A641 aboard the Sun Princess and set out on a tour of Skagway along Alaska’s Inside Passage. I was most excited about this particular port because it was the place where Jack London set out on the Chilkoot Trail for his Klondike quest that would become one of the greatest adventures in all of literary history. Plus, I love a good story with a dog as a character – and who more than Buck, whose spirit I felt roaming the streets. My heart skipped beats seeing the sleds in the Gold Rush Museum, where the provisions for sledders along the trail sent my mind spinning with all the things they had to take just to survive (one full year’s provisions).

As two of my children learned from a real gold miner lessons on How to Pan for Gold 101, I watched and listened, reminded of the hardships of the turn of the century that brought so many men searching for that one nugget that they believed would bring them security, and the risks they were willing to take to strike it rich. And I understood the primal need To Build A Fire and bask in its warmth in a way that had only ever garnered a half-hearted nod of agreement to London’s words on the page…..until I felt the paralyzing cold on the side of that mountain in Skagway.

Proverbs 27:21 

The crucible is for silver, and the furnace is for gold, and a man is tested by his praise.

Slice of Life Day 22 of 31: Journeys (my March theme)

Juneau, Alaska is a state capital that cannot be reached except by boat or plane. No one gets there by car because no roads lead to Juneau. Another seldom-realized fact about Alaska is that the shortest distance between Alaska and Russia is only 2.5 miles – frightening in times like these.

I visited Juneau, Alaska in May 1998 while on an Inside Passage cruise with my family. Mendenhall Glacier was pristine and beautiful, and the salmon hatchery was educational. I learned to spot bald eagles when the tour guide told us to “look for golf balls in the trees,” and they would be the heads of eagles. It worked, every time!

But my favorite part of Juneau was a ride up the Mount Roberts Tramway, where two of our children enjoyed playing in a dusting of snow and watching wildlife at the top of the mountain overlooking the port of Juneau. We saw signs letting us know which wildlife species we were likely to see that day – among them, the red squirrel. We’d become proficient at spotting eagles, so we looked forward to seeing some other cold climate creatures – we just didn’t want to encounter any bears along the mountain trails, and thankfully we didn’t.

The perspective high above the port overlooking the city below was breathtaking, and I fully appreciated the majestic beauty of the “eagle’s eye view” in those moments. I also understood, standing on that mountain with my children playing in the magical snow and watching squirrels, why having my feet on the ground is equally as beautiful. The lyrics of Climb Every Mountain were belting out from my heart across the snow-capped Alaskan peaks as if I were standing in Austria singing with all of the passion and none of the voice talent of Mother Abbess……hence the video version below:

Isaiah 52:7

7 How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, “Your God reigns!”

Slice of Life Day 21 of 31: Journeys

Eating escargot

Snails swimming in butter

Culinary delight

Artistically arranged

Round swirly shells

Good source of protein

On May 24, celebrate National Escargot Day

Tres delicieux!

There are only two places where I have ever eaten escargot: on cruise ships and in Paris, France. Honestly, I was apprehensive about eating land snails. Or any snails, for that matter. But I maintained cautious optimism and tasted the little shelled delicacies for the sake of immersing myself in a full French cultural experience.

The most appealing part of eating escargot is the melted butter – the unsalted quality kind, not like movie theater butter drizzled on popcorn from a pump dispenser. Snails are savory and a little chewy, and even if on the off-chance they had actually been chunks of those tiny little high-bouncing rubber balls like the kind kids buy out of those quarter machines, they were delicious because they swam in pools of melted butter.

Where everything is far bigger in Texas, everything is far smaller in France – especially the food portions. They give you a tiny little fork and a tiny little plate with some tiny little snails. They even set out wee baby water glasses. And if you want, you can order a tiny little cup of coffee. When I did that, I was served an espresso, because the French call their espresso coffee and drink theirs the way Americans drink a shot of whiskey, throwing it back all at once. It’s served in a tiny little espresso cup, the size of my childhood china teddy bear tea set, with sugar crystals that are supposed to float on the top if it’s made properly. It took some detective work to figure out that if I wanted coffee as I knew it, I should ask for an Americano. Once I learned these European coffee ropes, I was a happier traveler all the way around – and my companions appreciated my much-improved morning outlook. After holding that tiny little espresso cup, I now understand how the one-tiny-little-finger-pointing-up-when-sipping came to be a thing.

Isaiah 7:15 | Butter and honey shall he eat, that he may know to refuse the evil, and choose the good.

Slice of Life Day 20 of 31: Journeys (my March theme)

I’ve never been to Auschwitz, but my daughter Mallory says her travel group was rendered speechless for hours after they visited 12 years ago. They’d all had to regain their composure before being able to talk again. After reading Night by Elie Wiesel and watching the documentary of Oprah Winfrey going back to Auschwitz with him years later, I can only imagine what it must have felt like to have stood mere inches from the clothes, shoes, and other precious belongings – including teeth – of the innocent people who were taken there, separated from their loved ones, and killed at the hands of merciless monsters.

On a morning that started like any other, I was standing in the hallway of the high school preparing for a meeting when an English teacher shared that she had been cleaning off her bookshelves and discovered a book that piqued her interest. Upon further examination, she found that the book, A Beggar in Jerusalem, was one of 250 copies signed by Elie Wiesel himself.

As I beheld the signature, I was instantly transported to all the harrowing moments of Night – from the prophetic words of Moshe the Beadle that I reflect on more frequently than I care to admit, to the marches from the ghettos, from the cattle cars and the fighting over a scrap of bread on the train to the screaming of Madame Schachter, from the machine gun killings of infants used as target practice to the hanging of the young boy on the gallows, from the starving man who was shot crawling to the soup pot to the sickness that overtakes Elie’s father, from the image in the mirror where Elie sees the corpse staring back at him to that iconic photograph of him among the crowded, starving men in the wooden bunks. That one signature took me to all of those moments at once as I gazed with heartbroken sorrow at the ink there on the page, knowing the hand that signed the book had lived through those terrible times.

A trip is not a prerequisite for a journey, and journeys like these catch us off-guard. This one came out of nowhere and punched me in the gut. I had to pull myself back together quickly and move on with my morning. I’m glad we are past those times, I told myself. Nothing like this would happen today. The Moshe the Beadles of our world would warn us.

I arrived home and stopped at the mailbox, excited that my weekly copy of The New Yorker had arrived. Then I studied the image on the front cover.

I wept.

John 11:35 

Jesus wept.