Journey

A few weeks ago, Matt’s boss asked us to move to China (I say “us” because husband and I have vowed to stay together, in the physical, literal sense, for the remainder of our days, no matter what, amen, and hallelujah; so there’s not even a hint of possibility that Matt would go without me, and that’s settled).

Back to China.

The fine folks at Disney are building a theme park in Shanghai. It’s gonna be a doozy. The park itself might just out-glory all the rest, with its acres and acres of gardens and fairest castle of them all, not to mention entertainment innovation the world has never seen. All that, plus a partnership with a communist government in a city, that, according to some estimates, has the highest population in the world.

Safe to say, the project is complex.

In our first year of marriage, Matt traveled to Shanghai often to work on things I don’t understand—where all the dirt goes when it’s been excavated, for example. Matt was miserable. We were apart for long stretches of time, for one thing, and the tension and pressure of such a massive undertaking settled into shadows under his eyes. When his commitment to stick it out for one year ended, we fled.

So when his boss stopped by his office recently and said, “Got a minute?” Matt’s guard went up. The conversation was brief. Matt smiled a lot. The answer was no.

Frankly, I was the tiniest bit disappointed. Just the tiniest. I missed our family terribly when we lived in Los Angeles and O’ahu, but you know? Adventure is intoxicating.

A fellow known as one of the Sons of Korah wrote a song forever ago that’s now known as Psalm 84. The poet says, “Blessed are those … who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.”

A heart set on pilgrimage.

I do not exactly long for travel and grand adventure as many of my friends do, and perhaps this is because the second half of my life finds me tired, many days, and just as happy listening to bird song from my back patio as contemplating wonder in a faraway world.

But still. I have to confess, there is a certain pull.

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A friend recently confided that she wants to travel across the country in an RV with her cute husband, stopping in this or that town for several months, working this or that job just long enough to pay for the next leg of the journey.

Her particular travel fantasy holds zero appeal for me, but I get the urge to liquidate assets and hit the road. I really do.

I said to her, “Mel, I’m going to say four things about this topic to you. I believe them all—but they do not fit together. Do with them what you will.” Mel sat criss-cross-applesauce in the front seat of my car, and folded her hands as if in prayer. Mel is one hundred percent adorable.

Here the first thing I said. Our hearts long for Home, with a capital H, because that’s the place we were ultimately created for. We will keep wandering and looking and wondering until we arrive. That is why, on a recent trip to Philadelphia, Matt said, “I like this place. I wonder what it would be like to live here.” Matt says this about every place we visit, with the notable exception of Amarillo.

We wonder as we wander, “Is this the place? The one that fits the empty space in my soul, the place that will make me complete?” As much as I adore the Lakes District (and detest Las Vegas), the answer is no. We are not made for this place.

Here is the second thing I said.  Our God is a God who keeps his people on the move. This might be a natural outcropping of the first thing I said, as in, “Don’t get too comfy, kiddos. Remember where you ultimately belong is not the house you recently renovated and adore to distraction. It’s not about this place—so let’s get moving, lest you forget.”

This is not one of my favorite things about God. I like that I know my friend Claire at Publix has a daughter with an art shop on Park Avenue and that we’ve both survived breast cancer, all of this discovered as she runs my groceries over the scanner. Jeremy at Blue Bird Bake Shop makes me laugh every time I pop in to buy coffee and scones. When Matt picks up or drops off our dry cleaning, MaryBeth asks, “Is your wife okay? Why isn’t she with you?” Most of my family is within huggable distance, and when I walk into the lobby of my church, I love and am loved well by the people in that space.

And yet. Those friends and family members and people in my community have moved, are moving, and will move again. I say good-bye with my bags packed. And I say good-bye as I wave from my stoop. God is about as interested in keeping us in one physical space as he is in one spiritual space, which is to say, not at all. I might be wrong about this. But I don’t think so.

Here is the third thing I said to Mel. I asked, “Have you ever heard of the geographic cure?” Our friend Lindsey, who was sitting in the back seat, sighed and said, “Yep.” This was not a happy sigh or a happy yep. Mel looked puzzled, so I explained. The geographic cure is a thing addicts, grievers, dysfunctionals, and essentially anyone not at peace, do. The thought process goes something like this: “I am unhappy. The reason I am unhappy is because I live in fill-in-the-blank. If only I move to fill-in-the-blank, I will be happy.”

I learned this truth from years in the rooms of recovery. I’ve listened. I’ve shared. I’ve nodded. I’ve argued. And I’ve given in. The geographic cure is irresistibly attractive—and works never. If the thing driving a person to move is escape or fear or sadness or unresolved daddy issues (or whatever), it will not work. Period.

I said this to Mel with gentleness. She’s walked through tragedy and pain. How she manages to climb out of bed every morning and put on lipgloss, I do not know, but she does. And I love her.

I glanced at her. She swallowed and nodded. She got it.

Here’s the last thing I said to Mel. I don’t think God sits in heaven with a roll of Life Maps in his hand, each one a clear and unambiguous plan with a single name emblazoned at the top. Nope. He’s gifted us with this miraculously annoying thing called choice.

I didn’t say this to Mel, but I think it works like this. He’s set out a sumptuous buffet (or picnic, if you will). He knows I don’t like tomatoes and prefer to eat vegetarian, so when he invites me to eat (an invitation he issues every single day, without fail), he steers me toward the hummus wraps, the omelet station, the fresh fruit displays, the pasta bar, the dessert towers, the cheese boards, and the tall glass of fresh berries with a single mint leaf on top. He asks, “What would you like?”

With my selections made and in my hands, I then look around the dining room—and choose a quiet corner to sit with my man or I wander outside to the gazebo where dear friends are celebrating a birthday or I join the tea party in full swing in the herb garden—or I take my meal at a solitary table, with a cup of coffee and a book very nearby.

He’s given us choice. Where I live and what I do? Lots of options. Sure, there will be some boundaries. God’s not going to be okay with any move that exploits people or his planet, nor will he stand idly by while I chase pleasures that will inevitably cause harm. But if I ask, “God, should Matt and I stay in Orlando? Or make a different place our home?” I believe he claps his hands says, “Oh, child! Adventure! Let’s talk about our ideas. I’ll make the coffee. Where should we sit?”

My friend Lauren thinks it’s like holding five cards in her hands, each one with a place she’s drawn to. She keeps shuffling them around, placing this or that one on top, staring and dreaming for a long while, and then shuffling them again. Meanwhile, God sits patiently across from her, eyes sparkling and says, “Hey, you. Want to play one of those?”

I saw Mel last week at, ironically, a going-away party for a mutual friend. She and her husband were cuddled up on a picnic bench, noshing away at freshly grilled mini-burgers and homemade macaroni and cheese. I said, “Yo, RV-ers! Been thinking any more about your crazy plans?”

Her husband looked startled, but Mel’s face lit up in mischief and delight. “I have,” she gushed, and then she grinned at her man.

All these reflections? They boil down to this, really:

1. Dream big.

2. Hold your hands and your heart open.

3. Remember, wherever you go, you will be there.

That Psalm the son of Korah wrote? Here’s another bit of it: “Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere.”

Invite God into the journey. This, I believe, is the greatest adventure of all.