Frat Houses and Forging Ahead

A few mornings ago I was sitting in a beautiful living room in Minneapolis, MN. My cousin Michelle and her husband Steve had lent us their bikes and we had just returned from a ride around the Mississippi River. They had offered to take us to breakfast and we agreed. As we waited I was perched at my computer screen, trying to imagine the words I would use to describe our absolutely exquisite morning.

The waterfront had been perfect – just enough sunshine to make everything twinkle, just enough breeze to keep us cool. We had huffed and puffed a little – just the right amount to get a workout, but not too much that we had forgotten to enjoy the scenery. The old colonial style houses had towered over the glowing water. The river had been lined with lush, green trees. Back in my cousin’s living room the sun was warming the counter where I rested my elbows. I had a latte in hand. I could hear the gentle murmur of NPR in the background.

Little did we know we were in for a scene change.

Twenty-four hours later, there I was. In a fraternity house, sleeping in a bed that belonged to someone I didn’t know (don’t worry, he wasn’t in it). And as much as I tried to convince myself that he had washed his sheets and the towel that he had (so kindly) left me, I just couldn’t bring myself to believe that it was true. Outside, people were screaming and glass was breaking. Music was bumping, shaking the walls. The whole building smelled like alcohol and Mac and Cheese.

Do you ever catch yourself in moments like this? Blame it on exhaustion or unmet expectation or just the fact that I am human and I have bad days, but sometimes I find that my bad attitude creeps in and threatens to rob me of joy.

Catch me on any other day and I would have told you our experience at Beloit College was nothing short of amazing. Sharaya’s show there stands out as one of our favorites. The campus was all lit up, green with trees and bright with red brick buildings. It satisfied all of our sensibilities about the excitement of college life. The students we met – Taylor, Gabe, Joey – met us at our car, showed us to a coffee shop, even bought us dinner. They were such incredible hosts and friends.

Still, as I lay there that night and tried to sleep, there was a very confusing string of questions running through my head. It went something like this: What am I doing here? No seriously, what am I doing with my life? Was that glass breaking outside? Really? I haven’t posted to the blog in days. How will I write if I don’t sleep? I’m such a failure. Can someone turn that music down? Oh no. When did I get so old? Am I old? Is this what old people do on Friday nights – sleep? I am old! Only old people can’t sleep when it’s noisy! Oh great. I’m old and I still have no idea what I’m doing with my life. This is a nightmare. I quit.

See, usually our bad attitudes have very little to do with anyone else. Almost always they have to do with ourselves.

This trip (and my life, for that matter) has been full of all kinds of inconvenient moments. Our car broke down in Wyoming, for heaven’s sake. I’ve slept worse places than frat houses, that is for sure. One time a man threw up on my feet as I slept on a moving bus in Peru. Rolling with the punches. Flexibility. Gratitude. These are not unfamiliar lessons to me and while they are good lessons, I don’t think that they are my lesson this time.

So what is the lesson? I’m not sure I know yet. It has something to do with consistency. Completion. Holding on when it is difficult. Embracing the unknown. It may even have something to do with cutting myself a break. The point is that this is not the end of the lesson. But in order to learn it, we’ll just have to keep forging ahead…

Spokane to Minneapolis

Okay, so we started putting together this little video update and it made us realize how long it has been! We haven’t done one of these since Seattle.

So here it is, our video update from Spokane until now. So many fun, funny memories in amazing places with amazing people. We hope you enjoy it. Sorry it has taken us so long!

Cornfields, Jello Consumption, and a Lesson in “Fearing the No”

I haven’t written since we got to Iowa three days ago, but there are a couple of good reasons for that.

First, it’s Iowa – a state that is known for its cornfields and Jello (it’s true. Des Moines, the state capitol, is the country’s leader in Jello consumption). But more importantly, I have spent all of my emotional and mental energy in the last couple of days looking for a way to actually get paid for something I have written.

I am reading a couple of good books right now, but one is an advice book about Freelance Writing. You’ve read a book like this, I promise. Maybe it wasn’t about how to launch your freelance career, but the sentiment was the same. Likely, it was filled with all kinds of useful suggestions for how to build a better business, or to save your marriage or to better manage your money. Seven strategies. Three steps. Twelve truths. You know the drill.

There are lots of really negative things I could say about books like this but the truth is that I actually really love them. It’s true. The great part about these books is that each time I pick one up, I find myself motivated to actually do something. It challenges me to take control. I am encouraged to accountability.

I am inspired to change.

The problem with books like this is that they sometimes make the task at hand sound easier than it actually is. What they fail to mention is that the twelve-step, three-step or seventeen-step process they are selling isn’t some kind of magic formula; it doesn’t guarantee success. Especially if we don’t actually commit to the hard work that book is asking of us.

The problem with self-help books is that they often inspire us to a warm-fuzzy feeling that fades as quickly as we are able set down the book.

If the kind of inspiration we feel when we read these books lasts about as long as a New Year’s Resolution – if we give up at the first sight of Krispy Kreme, before the 24-hour fitness payment even has the chance to clear our bank account – then there is no chance for change. If we are going to experience any change, in fact, we have to commit to the real work it takes to get there.

Why is it so hard to do that?

My friend Melissa gives me really helpful advice about dating sometimes, and I find that her advice often applies to the rest of life, too. One of the things that she has said over and over again in the few years I have know her is, “Ally, don’t fear the no.” I am still learning what she means by this, but what I am finding is that sometimes we are afraid to take risks in life (in relationships, careers, money, business) not because we are afraid of hard work, but because we worry that – after all of our emotional and mental energy is spent – the answer to the question that we were asking (whatever it was) might in fact be “no.”

Maybe you can identify. Maybe you’ve been afraid to ask someone on a date, or to accept an invitation for one, or to apply for a job, or to reach out to a friend, or to say ‘I’m sorry” or to submit an article for publication, or to play that song you wrote because you’re afraid of what someone might say. Maybe you’re scared to ask, “Am I right for this job?” or “Do you like what I wrote?” or “Am I the right woman/man for you?” because you’re afraid of what the answer might be.

I felt that way yesterday, sitting at a coffee shop in Des Moines. I was plugging away at my computer screen, editing articles, building an online writing portfolio, writing cover letters, registering for Freelance Agencies, shopping writing gigs on craigslist – all the while wondering to myself, do I really have what it takes? What if no one cares what I have to say? Call me a pessimist but I couldn’t help but think to myself – what if all of this is for nothing?

The truth about Packing Light and ‘following your dreams’ is that it isn’t always as glamorous as it seems. In fact, most of it is just spinning wheels, writing songs, articles, playing shows, sending five-thousand requests for publications, booking inquiries. Some days you receive rejection letters. Some days you play for empty rooms. Some days you share your heart, and all you hear is silence.

And each day you choose to take a risk, regardless of what the answer might be.

Because when you really think about it, “no” is actually liberating – if we’ll allow it to be. No means there is something else, something better, something ahead of us, down the road a little ways. Don’t fear the no, Melissa would say. No isn’t scary. It’s exciting. Embrace it. No is part of the journey. No is one step closer to yes.

Eat, pray, love in Kansas City.

Eat.

Friday night in Kansas City I found myself eating red meat—no, wait, not just eating red meat, but gorging myself on ribs and brisket—for the first time in three years. We were at Jack Stacks, one of the premier BBQ restaurants in Missouri, and Sharaya and I couldn’t help it. We ordered one of everything.

This occurrence is unusual for me for a couple of reasons. First, I suffer from food allergies that make restaurants sometimes more frustrating/embarrassing than they are worth. Second, I am a recovering vegetarian who is still acclimating myself to the idea of poultry, let alone red meat. Finally, this trip has Sharaya and I on strict budget, which means that any meal not gifted to us is generally assembled from grocery store ready-to-eats.

But, my dear friend Andy Lopez—the best city tour guide of our entire trip—swore we couldn’t come to Kansas City without going out for BBQ (and he even did his research to find a place that was gluten free) so we found ourselves at Jack Stacks on Friday evening, food spread in front of us, smiling and enjoying one of the most delicious moments of our trip.

And the delicious moments didn’t end there.

The next afternoon Andy took us to Lawrence, Kansas to see the University and the local street fair that takes place there. The town was packed for the festival, where local performers of all kinds set up their acts and perform for tips along the streets. We wandered and watched and laughed a little, and enjoyed peering into all the little shops. My favorite was called The Dusty Shelf, a quirky and disorganized little bookstore that housed hundreds of barely-sorted books.

The tastiest part of the day was our lunch stop—a little place called Local Burger that features gluten-free buns and organic meats. Don’t tell anyone, but I actually enjoyed the first hamburger I have eaten in years. And by enjoyed I mean totally guilt-free. That is until Andy mentioned that the cow I was eating was probably killed that morning, just down the street.

As if that weren’t enough deliciousness for a single weekend, we also visited Kansas City’s legendary River Market (didn’t I tell you Andy was the best tour guide ever?) an open-air market over-run with delicious, local and organic produce. I can’t post them all here, but the pictures from our afternoon speak for themselves.

Pray.

We visited the International House of Prayer in Kansas City, a 24-hour prayer room that is practically a landmark here. I need some more time to process before I write about this experience, and this post is long, so I’m going to write about it later.

Love.

Yesterday morning Sharaya and I got lost on the way to church, and ended up driving circles around Kansas City—the street grid here is really confusing.

Regardless, we drove around what seemed like the same blocks over and over again until we somehow landed in a different neighborhood completely. I sat at an intersection I didn’t recognize and glanced around, confused. We were late and cranky and (to be honest) the tension between us was mounting.

Suddenly, just ahead of us, we saw a bunch of people holding bibles coming out of an old building. So we went in.

Once inside we realized that the church we had stumbled across was actually an awful lot like Solid Rock, the church we attend back home. In fact, aside from glaring lack of skinny jeans, the people even reminded us of our Solid Rock family—young, clutching bibles, piling into tiny pews, smiling. Sharaya and I scooted through the tiny hallways and grabbed the ‘weekly’ that they handed us on the way in. We found our way to our seats.

And then we fought (yes, fought) right there in the pew.

I know you probably weren’t expecting that—especially in the section titled love—but it’s true. We fought just like an old married couple in a romantic comedy or something, with muted voices and harsh tones, ignoring everything we know about positive interpersonal communication and spitting phrases like, “Well you never/always…” and, “You’re the one who…”

Then the pastor taught from Colossians 2. “Therefore, as you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in Him, rooted and built up in love and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving…” We hung our heads, hugged and apologized, and walked to the car where spent the next hour having of those conversations that makes you hurt and learn and grow.

Love is hard, and it hurts sometimes, and it’s messy even. That’s the truth. But I can’t help but think about a verse that has been on my mind for weeks now, and that seems especially poignant in light of what transpired yesterday morning. 1 John 4:2 reads, “In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through Him.”

There are moments, in love especially, where my arrogance and pride and self-centeredness become so evident that the idea of love seems impossible, ludicrous even. At the same time it is moments like these that remind me of the weight of His mercy. I am grateful for the complexity of His Grace. That His power is made perfect in my weakness.

That my source for love is my relationship with Him.

We’re headed to Iowa City this morning. More soon…

Lessons From (running on) the Road

This morning I set out for my AM run without a specific plan for where I was headed, or for how far I was going to go, and it didn’t take long for me to remember that when you’re running without a destination, it is really hard to stay motivated.

Having a plan is important because it helps us to pace ourselves, to run with purpose, and to recognize all those really important mile-markers along the way. But it can also be hard to have a plan when you’re running in a brand new city, when you’re navigating unfamiliar terrain.

I was lamenting to a friend on the phone last night that I sometimes feel like that about this trip. I think about writing a book, or launching a ‘career’ as a writer, and feel totally overwhelmed because it is so unlike anything I have ever done. How am I supposed to make a plan when I can’t conceptualize what is coming? I don’t even know where to begin!

His advice was simple. Make the best plan that you know how, and then change it along the way. After all, having a plan that changes is better than having no plan at all.

By the time I hit the four-mile mark I was feeling pretty unmotivated and tired, when all of a sudden the gentle drizzle that had been cooling the morning turned into a torrential downpour. It was the kind of downpour that makes you feel like the sky might cave in. Within minutes I was tired and cold and wet and thinking: this was definitely not part of the plan.

I started the steep incline – up, up, up – back into the city and I wanted to quit. I told myself to breathe. I listened to the distinct sound of my feet as they hit the pavement. And just when I thought I couldn’t run one uphill for one more step, I reached into that secret reserve of energy inside me – that ‘emergency’ reserve that each of us has – and held on just long enough for the hill crest.

There have been moments on this trip that have felt a bit like running uphill, moments where anger or disappointment or hunger or lack of sleep made us feel like giving up. But the thing I am learning about running and life (and relationships and launching careers and Packing Light) is that there will inevitably be moments when we want to give up, and that those moments teach us what it means—and how rewarding it is—to dig deep.

After the hill crested and I dropped back into the city of Omaha this morning, I felt that sigh of relief that always comes with downhill. The rain had subsided and I watched as the sun sat up under the low horizon and the cloud cover scooted away. It was still Omaha, but it was actually kind of beautiful.

The best part about digging deep is that it always meets us with reward on the other side.

The Truth About The Truth

We’re still in Nebraska and, although it finally stopped raining here there still isn’t much to talk about– Koolaid, TV dinners, steak, football, blah blah blah – so I am going to write about something that has been on my mind for awhile. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with Packing Light, but it keeps rising to the top of those mental lists I was talking about so I am trusting that it somehow belongs.

Last week a friend asked me if I was trying to write a ‘Christian’ book from this experience and I realized that I hadn’t really thought about it much. She noted that if I were to slant my writing a little—if I were to talk about faith with more generalities—more people could identify with my experience and I could draw a wider audience. I told her that I couldn’t do that because I didn’t think it would be honest, which wasn’t really fair because that wasn’t the whole truth.

The truth was that her advice made me worry a little. It made me worry about what it means to be a “Christian” author, made me nervous about being placed in that category. It made me think about who was reading (and not reading based on what I was writing (or not writing) and what that meant I was allowed (or not allowed) to say.

I know that Sharaya can relate. I have watched her worry each time she performs her song that uses the word “damn.” It’s almost like there is this invisible pressure that comes along with being an artist who also happens to be a Christian. It’s easy to worry that people will be confused if I am honest about who I really am.

The truth is that truth is not my strong suit. My name means, “Truthful One,” but it’s ironic. Ask my family, or just spend enough time around me and you’ll likely hear me tell a story like, “this one time I jumped off a hundred foot cliff!” And while I often like to remind people that I am a writer, and that exaggeration is a narrative technique, I have to admit that a failure to tell the truth is more often about fear than anything else.

I think that truth is scary because it exposes us—all the things about us that are ugly and irritating and boring. The truth about truth is that it is sometimes embarrassing, sometimes disturbing, sometimes annoying or complicated or doesn’t make sense. But I love the wisdom that came to me in an email this past week: Truth isn’t always the easiest choice, but it always leads to the best results.

I am tempted sometimes—in writing, in life—to stay silent because I worry that if you hear the truth, you will go away. Sometimes I am tempted to use words that are not true, or that kind of true, because I know that you will not be happy with the ones that are. But I am reminded, again (and again, and again) that being known as someone who I am not doesn’t feel any better than not being know at all. Truth is about freedom.

Truth is both the hardest and best thing that we can do.

So the truth is that I am not trying to write a Christian book. I don’t sit down at my computer screen each morning and think about how I can weave in a Bible verse. I don’t pose at the keyboard, write about an experience, and then try to find a way to fit God in it. I write what I know. I write who I am.

Anything else would be dishonest.

Packing Light and Making Lists

We hit the one month mark yesterday and as I am reflecting on all of the incredible things that have transpired in the last thirty days, I am reminded that life happens fast. So fast, in fact, that it’s virtually impossible to keep up.

Packing Light.

When there’s too much to pack (or to say) and you don’t know what to choose, I recommend making a list (or two or five). Lists can help you organize and simplify and prioritize. And usually, just the process of making a list forces the most important details to rise to the top.

Here are some of the lists that are tumbling around in my head…

Things that make us smile

• Our visit to Yellowstone National Park, Old Faithful and Mt. Rushmore and especially the image of Sharaya and I trying to really “embrace” these moments. We’re standing there, we’ve taken the obligatory picture, we’re just trying to figure out what is taking everyone else so long… Tourists are hilarious. Watch the video. It makes our day in Yellowstone appear much more eventful than it actually was.

• The restaurant owner who heard our story at Mt. Rushmore and liked it so much that he bought our lunch. He also tried to get us to eat Buffalo burgers, a fact which forced us to second-guess our newest road rule (Never turn down free food).
• Continental breakfasts that turn into continental lunches and dinners when Sharaya pilfers boxes of cereal and bagels and coffee creamers.
• Ending up (by accident) at a Cowboy bar in Deadwood, South Dakota, a Cowboy bar that just happened to be the actual location where Buffalo Bill was shot in 1876. Picture Prague, except replace the Western Europeans and museums for a bunch people drinking Whiskey out of plastic cups, truckers, mullets and Harley Davidson’s.
• Sharaya and I trying to camp alone. Don’t tell the authorities, but we may have inadvertently squatted (isn’t that what it’s called when you camp illegally?) in the Black Hills National Forest the other night. We’re would be worried about National Forest spy cameras and/or our impending arrest, but we still don’t have license plates on our new car, so I think we’re good.
• Speaking of cars and license plates, a pleasant side-effect of leaving my car in Laramie, WY was that we left the parking ticket (that we were issued in Colorado Springs) with it. Lost my car, saved ourselves twenty-five bucks.

Things that keep us going:

• (Me) Running: In Mikoshika State Park, The Badlands of North Dakota. In the Tetons, where after the elevation takes its toll, the scenery steals every bit of breath you have left. On the waterfront in Nebraska where a footbridge takes you across from Nebraska to Iowa and back to Nebraska again.
• (Sharaya) Fruit Leather: Sharaya would like to thank her mom for taking her to Costco and buying her a big box before the trip. She eats then every single day, and always says the same thing: “These things are so good! They can’t possibly be good for you!”
• (Both of us) Our visit with Brooke and Joel in Glendive, MT. We were both really moved  by the time we spent with this beautiful (we’re not being figurative here… they’re seriously beautiful!) couple. I plan to write more about this special weekend later, but here’s the short version: A guest room with an amazing bed. A much-needed visit to Brooke’s salon. A bottle of wine (okay, maybe two). A movie night. Salmon on the grill. Sweet potatoes. Coconut bread (no joke… all the way in Glendive, Montana… Brooke is Gluten Free). Conversation shared. Wisdom offered. Sunday morning at their church. So blessed.
• (Both of us) The people who love us back home. People keep saying that we’re brave for what we’re doing, but the truth is that we wouldn’t be doing it if it weren’t for you.

Things we’re glad we “packed”:

• Our phones. While we were driving through South Dakota Sharaya turned to me, and with the most genuine, sincere and concerned expression on her face said, “What do people even do without cell service here? Do they even have iPhones?” In all seriousness, our phones are our lifeline  – to our families, to our next destination, to people we love back home.
• The US Guide Book and day-cooler that our friend Drew gifted to us. Perhaps the two most useful additions to our trip (Thanks Drew!)
• The Travel French Press. I had sufficiently detoxed myself from coffee before this trip, but Sharaya insisted on bringing it. And thank goodness she did because I am back on this bandwagon, full-force. Driving without coffee is hazardous to one’s health.
• Fruit Leathers. I am as grateful for them as Sharaya is. I often just hand her one. It’s like giving Popsicle to a little kid.

Things we are learning:

• How to purchase, insure and register a car from a distance, a process which includes form #211, #724, #3169 (plus about four others) and a Nebraska law enforcement officer who is willing run a VIN and DEQ inspection. We’re planning a little visit to the Omaha Police Station today.
• About hospitality. I keep thinking about our friend Sean and Eva and that question they asked us back in Seattle: What do you need? Also, I love what Ariel Gore says about compassion being hard earned. I have always thought of myself as a hospitable person, but this trip is teaching me what that word really means.
• About the graciousness of family and friends. This has been a repetitive lesson for me, but in the face of crisis, I can’t think of a group of people that I would rather have on my side. Grace doesn’t even begin to describe the attitude with which these people have handled our moving drama: Mom and dad, Braden, Mikey, Rebecca Neilson, Heather and Jimmy, Matt and Anna, Liam, Charlie, Tim, Erica and Luke, Lindsey Strand, and I really hope I’m not forgetting anyone…

Things we miss from home (the quick version). People. Bike rides to breakfast. Skinny Dip (the frozen yogurt). Hikes in The Gorge. The Sitka. Popcorn on the stove. Stumptown. AM Runs with Rebecca (and Bentley). Mom and dad. SP & Ryan. SR House Church. Patrick. The Springwater Corridor (with Alex on Saturday mornings… you make me faster than I am). Dinner club. 21st and Flanders. Stone ground mustard and other items from Trader Joe’s…

What do you want to read more about from our Packing Light lists? I’m taking suggestions in the comments below.

Packing Light(er and lighter and lighter…)

It is 4am and we’re in a parking lot in Jackson Hole, WY.

Sharaya is in the passenger seat, turned backwards in the fetal position—head by the dashboard, rested on a heaping pile of who-knows-what. I am leaned forward, face first in the pillow I’ve shoved against the steering wheel. Our car is filled to the brim with all kinds of things—sleeping bags, clothing, pillows, purses, shoes, smelly socks, a haphazardly folded tent. We smell of sleepiness and campfire and three days without showers.

We are both trying desperately to sleep but you can tell from our profound sighs of discontent that we are not experiencing success. Suddenly Sharaya sits up and with that hazy, irritated “its morning, don’t bother me” look in her eye whispers very articulately… Low. Point.

We bet you’re wondering how we got here. Let me back up.

We left our campsite at 3am Wednesday morning because our friend Drew had to drive back to Boise for work, and we were afraid to camp without him. Its silly, we know, especially coming from a couple of women who are rarely afraid of anything, and hate to admit it when they are. But the truth is that, between the MSNBC coverage of escape convicts lose in Yellowstone and the horror story our car salesman Colt had told us about the tourists being maimed and eaten by bears, we were scared. And we weren’t afraid to admit it

The problem was we were headed to Yellowstone National Park, only about forty minutes away, and the park didn’t open until 8am. Also, we had only slept three hours the night before. Also we needed coffee before driving. Also, we were pretty desperate to use the running water in one of the town’s public restrooms. Also, our new trunk was smaller than our old one, and we needed to ship some things home.

So we figured we’d find ourselves a comfy little parking lot next to a public restroom and sleep for a few hours before grabbing coffee, stopping at the post office, and then hitting the road. It was a nice plan (we thought) but our full car was severely impeding our sleep, and our morning wasn’t transpiring as peacefully as we had anticipated.

Finally, by the time 7am rolled around, we had given up on sleep altogether. I went for coffee while Sharaya unloaded our entire car into a pubic parking lot. People stared. One guy asked if we were having a yard sale. We made several decisions about what to send home that would have been unnerving had we been awake enough to realize it, but that instead felt remarkably unimportant because we were just plain too tired to care.

Maybe sometimes it’s best to pack light like this, without over-analyzing, over-thinking. Some of our best decisions are made on the fly, on instinct—without too much deliberation, without an elaborate pro-con list.

In fact, if we thought through all the potential hang-ups and hold-ups, if we pondered all the mistakes that we could possibly make, maybe it would prevent us from moving forward in our journey.

And perhaps that would be the worst mistake of all.

Camping in the Tetons

Camping is strange, if you really stop to think about it. I mean, we pack up our things (actually, not even our things, all kinds of little mini versions of our things… mini stove, mini French Press, mini bowls and plates and chairs) and we take all of our mini things along with our mini cloth houses to a place that’s far, far away from our sturdy, comfortable ones. Then, when we get there we set up our thin, fragile dwellings and sleep on the ground inside of them, all the while eating freeze dried food that we cooked on our little mini stoves. We skip showers, we squat to pee, and we call it recreation.

The beauty, the allure of camping has to be more than meets the eye.

We arrived in Jackson Hole last Tuesday evening and followed the directions up into the mountains to the campsite our friend Drew had chosen for us. He had been waiting for nearly two days due to our hold-up in Laramie, so had sufficiently scouted the surroundings on our behalf. McNally (our new Subaru) trudged diligently along the gravel road. We gawked and gasped at each switchback, the mountains rising with more grandeur each time they appeared from behind the trees.

Finally, almost exactly at sunset, we pulled our Subrau right next to Drew’s and hiked the dull path to a secluded ridge, where a campfire was blazing and the sun was setting behind the breathtaking Grand Tetons. They call these mountains Grand for a reason.

We greeted one another, wrapped ourselves in sweatshirts and blankets, and watched the sun slip away below the high horizon, where aside from the gentle roaring of the flames and the whirring of the wind, everything was quiet. The two days that followed couldn’t possibly have been more refreshing.

We built campfires and sat around them, talking about things that mattered, and things that didn’t. We hiked. We drank hot chocolate. We stared aimlessly at the mountains for hours, just trying to memorize their magnificence. We ate camping food—the crazy items and combinations that always taste better than they should. In the absence of butter Sharaya mixed avocado with macaroni and cheese and swears she is going to start doing that at home. We made time for the things that too often get pushed out by our to-do lists—naps, reading, writing, prayer.

And as strange as camping is, there is something really altering about getting lost in the mountains. I think it has to do with both connection and disconnection.

Disconnecting ourselves from the world, I think, reminds us that it still functions without us; that life goes on without our cell phones and computers and to-do lists. And connecting ourselves with something magnificent—the mountains, a sunset, a sky full of stars—acts as a pleasant reminder that this life isn’t about me, isn’t contingent upon me, can’t be destroyed at my shortcomings or my failures.

Indeed, the sun will set in all it’s majesty even if every item isn’t checked dutifully off of my list, even if I don’t have cell service to tweet about it. The wind will blow ripples through this field of grass to look like waves in the water, and I can take no credit.

I am just a witness.

Packing Light and Limited Options

Last I wrote we were stopped unexpectedly in Laramie, WY, the small (small) town that happened to be the closest when we overheated early that morning. Our mechanic Clouse said that it was probably the head gaskets—that with Subarus and 2.5L engines it was always the head gaskets—but that we should pray it wasn’t the head gaskets, because of the extent and expense of the repair.

To be honest, we didn’t even know what head gaskets were (until he explained it to us and showed it to us and explained it to us again and again…) but we did pray. In fact, we asked everyone we knew to pray. And sometimes, when we pray, the answer is no.

In this case, I guess, the answer was: head gaskets.

With the repair bill in front of us—a repair bill that virtually matched the worth of the car—Sharaya and I deliberated over our options. Options. That was the problem. There just weren’t very many of them.

• Option #1. Sell the car, buy plane tickets to Hawaii, and end our trip early with (at least) the consolation of a tropical vacation (In all honesty, this was an option about which we had joked and laughed before the trip began, but that didn’t occur to us as a viable option during the heat of the crisis itself)
• Option #2. Borrow the money to fix the car and hope that we didn’t encounter any more mechanical issues along the way (In the words of Clouse, yeah, right…)
• Option #3. Beg an unsuspecting Subaru dealership in Cheyenne, WY to take my broken Subaru on a trade for a certified one… and, oh yeah, to offer financing for two girls with no substantiated income.

See, that’s the thing with Packing Light. When there aren’t many choices in your suitcase, you can’t waste your whole morning deliberating over what to wear.

So, in the spirit of Packing Light we drove my car (slowly, carefully, checking the fluids every ten minutes) the forty miles to Cheyenne. We met with a nice salesman named Colt who showed us the only car on the lot that met our qualifications. Low mileage. A Warranty. A roof rack so that we didn’t have to abandon Alex’s cargo box in Wyoming too [Side note: we don’t recommend packing light with other people’s things].

And a few short, dizzying hours later we were the proud—perhaps confounded, disillusioned, but proud nonetheless—joint owners of a ’09 Subaru Impreza. As if we weren’t enough like a married couple before…

Meet McNally. As in, Rand:

Also in the spirit of Packing Light, I said goodbye to Sammy, the car that I have loved and that I swear has loved me back over the past three years. I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again.  The hardest part about Packing Light is letting go.

And again, the best part about letting go is that it frees us to grab onto something new.

If we’re able to muster a little resilience, a little gumption, we can prevent those little bumps in the road from derailing us from our destination, our vision. Before we knew it we were back on I-80 headed full-speed toward our long-anticipated vacation.

Yellowstone National Park. The Grand Tetons. The most incredible campsite of our lives. Stay tuned.