As a kid, the very word "vacation " would strike wonder in my heart. Each summer, I spent two weeks with my sister, Martha, who lived in St. Augustine, Fla. Obviously, there was plenty to do in the oldest city in America and I took full advantage of the opportunity.
Since I made this trip every year, I soon covered all of my favorite spots, so I eventually settled into a pattern of just hanging out with my sister. She had a way of making mundane activities fun, mainly because she was upbeat most of the time, even when things were difficult for her. She had a gift for keeping her feelings in check.
I did not inherit this gene. If I felt it, I dealt it. I eventually saw the wisdom in not expressing everything that crossed my emotional air waves, thanks to her. However, my heart still seems most comfortable when resting on my sleeve.
When I was twelve, I took a break from the St. Augustine ritual and went to the mountains with my dad. This would mark the end of my normal childhood, since he was killed just weeks after this trip. Fortunately, I couldn't see the future, so I enjoyed this trip immensely, and so did he.
My dad loved driving and he always kept his eyes on the road unless he was spiraling up or down a mountain. Then, he was gawking and pointing breathlessly at every feature of those majestic rocks. I watched the road for him, which brought him no small amount of displeasure because he wanted me to look where he was pointing.
But, back in the early 70s, guard rails were unheard of, though Dad would have driven over them anyway. I took it upon myself to be the guardian of the road's edge because I really wanted to see my 13th birthday, so I did some "front-seat-driving," directing the steering wheel remotely with shrieks of occasional terror.
By the grace of God, we safely arrived at our motel in the early evening hours on the first day of our trip, which gave me time to waste as much of my father's money as possible at a shop next to our room. I quickly blew $20 on a leather cowboy hat that magically transformed me into Clint Eastwood's twin from one of his western flicks. Dad continued the shopping spree by adding a plastic donkey, sitting on his back legs in a show of rebellion. He said the figure would always remind me of how stubborn he was. He was right and I still have it.
My pop got his revenge for my spending habits by dragging me to a bluegrass shindig down the road. I can still hear the banjos twanging in my head. But, perhaps my dad's greatest revenge came by taking me back to our room, which I suddenly realized was sitting at the base of a mountain. Since I had read many caution signs along the roads that warned of falling rocks, I was slightly unnerved.
The view of this mile-high rock factory from the bathroom window was enough to constipate a young man. Yet, we survived through the night and made our way spinning through the Smoky Mountains as we headed to visit my Aunt Wilma.
Yesterday's aroma filled her home as did the photos of her many loved ones, all of whom got a belated birthday card from her each year. When one occasionally arrived on time, I would open it late so as to keep the tradition alive.
My dear uncle was well up in years and his penchant for excitement had passed. However, he was known to leave the bathroom door slightly ajar when taking care of his necessities, which did cause some excitement for the rest of us. Should you walk in on him, he would smile, saying gingerly, "Yep, I'll be right out." He was never shocked by anything.
As an adult, I was determined to provide a more flawless experience when it came to vacations. My wife and I meticulously planned our own trip to the mountains, complete with a fishing trip and a visit to see the grandparents.
We arose bright and early for our appointment at a catfish farm. Everything was going according to schedule until my wife started getting dressed. It seems a scorpion had taken a nap in her pants and he was not pleased to have been roused so early, which I totally understand. After a pinch or two, my wife was dancing a jig, screaming unintelligibly and undressing with remarkable speed. I took all this as a good omen that the catfish would be biting, and they were.
We concluded our trip with dinner at a nice restaurant with the grandparents. As we left, our instructions were to follow them back to their house, which seemed easy enough. I failed to factor in how many identical trucks there are in North Carolina.
The thirty-minute ride back home turned into a two-hour adventure. We followed somebody's truck a long way in the wrong direction before we got enough cell signal to call for a SWAT team to rescue us from our diversion. We were welcomed home by Grandpa, with a grin that was barely withholding a chuckle, saying, "I was wondering where y'all were!" So were we.
That is my picture of life thus far. You can't control it or make it turn out as you wish, no matter how hard you try. It's best just to saddle up and ride, letting the journey be it's own destination and allowing the Lord to transform your character along the bumps and bruises that are sure to come. Keep Him at the reigns so that wherever you end up, you'll always be at home.