That NW Bridge

The Vance Creek bridge sits 347 feet above the ground. It's the second highest railway arch bridge in the United States. I was told these stats while sitting around a campfire. I had heard of the bridge--mainly seen it in photos and in this "17 death-defying views list"--but this was the first time it was given a name.

The photos seemed "cool". People standing on abandoned railroad tracks with a vast landscape of faraway (& far-below) trees surrounding them. I expected an easy-going adventure--awesome in its own beauty alone.

Upon arrival, we began trekking the short trail to the bridge. My heart began to race inside my chest in a way that I can't recall it having done in quite a long time. I felt like an excited child--naïve in what the world can be.

On the way to the bridge, I had a brief discussion with a friend about heights. It wasn't a fear of heights or even a fear of falling: it was a want to jump, a want to know the sensation of free-fall.

I once sat on a cement wall in Pittsburgh with a friend. We gazed down at the river, maybe 40 feet below us, and I said, "I want to jump." Surprised, my friend said, "I was just thinking that." What is it about these strange heights that call us to plunge into the depth? It's a temptation: into what, I do not know.

Standing on either side of the bridge, I admit, I felt the pull. 347 feet. Though a rather unfriendly landing ground of rocks & trees. Some kids dragged a big branch into the center of the bridge and tossed it over the side. I heard the crack, like a shotgun in the distance. I asked what happened, and a friend described the branch as having "splintered" upon impact.

I'm still in awe of what a God-fearing sense of life this bridge implanted within me. I discovered fears I didn't know I had. I realized that I am not the seemingly immortal child I tend to think I am at heart. I learned that 347 feet is a long way down.

The first end of the bridge seems harmless. You climb a large, metal tube to actually reach the bridge, & then there's nothing to do but cross. With each step, I realized just how frightening this whole concept even was: the bridge is extremely old; the railroad ties are rotting, some missing entirely, some just splintering under my feet.

Something about the height, the lack of railing--open ends with nothing to catch you but the treetops below; something about it all felt like a sort of flying & falling at the same time. Every step left my head swirling, as if I were standing still and twirling. I felt dizzy and confused. If I looked straight ahead, I could feel the height, but if I looked down, the spinning sensation resumed, yet I felt safe because I could see where my feet would land. I tripped once and fell forward, catching myself in a moment of panic. Of course I was going to be fine. I wasn't near the edge, but the feeling of going down introduced the idea to the end to my mind.

When we started on the bridge, I thought I would only go a short distance then come back. I didn't realize that once started, I would have to cross the whole way: the voice within me wouldn't have it any other way, though quivering and frightened. Halfway across, there is a section where the railroad ties are burnt, some gone completely. It was then that I nearly turned back. One missing tie was one thing: two required stepping down onto the steel support beam then back up to the next tie. On either side of the support beam, there was enough room for about two people to fall straight through. I couldn't step down while holding my puppy; my legs were shaking too bad. She was even more frightened than me- she held onto my shoulders with a force (one of these moments I bet dogs wish they had thumbs).

Some high schoolers  were sitting calmly on the other side watching us. One kid -maybe 12 years old-reached his arms across the gap to us. I carefully handed Pickle to him & followed close behind. We then resumed the walk across. The last half was the best and the worst-the best because of the sweet taste of land, the worst because it meant that we, once again, had the full length of the bridge yet to cross.

Friends offered tips to help with the dizzying confusion of walking on the bridge. "Just look straight ahead" (but I need to see where I step!) or the usual "don't look down" proved unhelpful. The best was to walk parallel to the beams beneath the ties where it was blocking off the view below while allowing me to see ahead. The only catch was that it was closer to the edge.

By the time we made it back (though one of the first to hop onto the bridge, I was the last to leave it), I had a resonating quiver within that reminded me that I had never been that physically afraid before in my life. Fear of a what? It was only the sensation of danger, not an actual present threat.

For days after, the thought of the bridge offered that shaking reminder of being alive, like when you pinch yourself to check your consciousness. All I could think was that I wanted to go back, particularly with my nice camera to try to more adequately capture the scene.

Since our visit, the bridge has been officially closed to visitors for a multitude of reasons, mainly that it resides on private property, causing a liability issue for the owners were anyone to be injured on the bridge. I'm glad to have gotten to see it, and while I may not be able to return, I hope to find other views that inspire such vitality in just being in its presence.

 

 

life in the woods

We used to create pretend lives in the woods.

 

The first instances I remember are with my sister. Our first pretend home was the center of a circle of forsythia bushes. They were directly outside of our real home, but it was our own little hideaway. The round bushes seemed to create a wall with a tunnel to enter through. Once inside, it was like we were "big kids" in our own little home, closed in by powdery yellow with an open sky.

 

Our next was the giant pines a little farther up the yard. Pennsylvania really has some great pine trees. These were maybe forty or fifty feet tall with long, thick branches along the bottom, which were great for two purposes: 1) they created a skirt around the tree where we could hide (our new walls) 2) they were thick enough and low enough for us to begin the climb. We'd take turns, each climbing as high as we could (we were always climbing trees). Sometimes we'd lie down on the branches & pretend they were our beds, as if our bedrooms were just on different levels of our house.

 

(Now that I think about it, my sister always begged my dad for a treehouse. We sort of got it after years and years of piece by piece construction. We spent one night in it (still unfinished), and that was it. Never got done. But that's okay because I think we were better off for it because we had better times living in the trees because a treehouse isn't a wooden structure built among trees--it's just trees & an imagination.)

 

I have no idea what I thought as a four or five year old climbing those pine trees. The memories come in small snippets of questionable truth. Picturing me up in the pine feels like we were pirates, climbing the highest mast to lookout for intruders. I guess that's partially true--we never wanted to be found.

 

Yet a smidge farther up the yard, there was a small opening between clumps of trees that was its own cove, complete with…you guessed it--a brilliant old clawfoot tub. By brilliant, I may mean covered in dirt & algae and filled it the greenest water and the occasional turtle.

 

As I'm writing this, I’m realizing that is becoming more a list than a story of our many play-venture homes in the woods, barely touching the details of each. I'll settle for a few more before making my point.

 

There was this place we called the picnic area--a spacious opening between the trees where my family had set up picnic tables, a barbeque, & everything else necessary for a party. However, by the time we took to playing there, it had been long out of use and falling apart: a shadow of its former life.

 

At the far end of the clearing, a large beam sat propped on poles--a few railroad ties broken & balanced in their own little Stonehenge. We used to climb on the tie and use it as a balance beam, though I think its intended purpose was to be a serving table for food. Over a dip in the landscape, near the thickening woods, a small rotting hut sat full of pots & pans & random kitchen utensils. Sometimes we would go in there (usually on a dare) to sneak around for something for our pretend homes.

 

The picnic area was great for our play-pretend because everything we needed was already there. When the area was cleared away, we scraped our way deeper into the woods to build a new house. We’d graduated far from our old homes in the woods where we just played pretend that the trees were walls & rooms & living utensils--for this one, we took a level & made our best twelve-year-old attempts to create flat ground out of the hill. We then laid down plywood: floor complete.

 

Living up the road from a junk yard, we decided we should go rummage around for some other household items. We settled for one tire, which we rolled all the way up the hill around the bend, down & up another hill & back into the woods. We dug a hole and placed the tire over the hole: toilet.

 

Derek's parents had this little plastic garden wagon. We would fill it with utensils & snacks & attach it to Derek's wheelchair for him to tow it back into the woods for us--the beginnings of yet another woodland home.

 

So there we were: us & our play-pretend homes with our play-pretend lifestyles and our play-pretend futures.

 

I went camping last weekend. I snuck away a few times to just sit in the woods alone. There was a "primitive campsite" back into the woods--just a small open clearing, big enough for a tent. It wasn't occupied, so I'd go & sit on the small stone bench. Looking up: the break in the trees; looking around: the rustling, moving stillness of the forest; listening: silence, silence & birds in swooping whistles.

 

These are things I haven't experienced in a while. I've missed them. It all feels so familiar; I wished I could lie down in the grass & pretend that I was in one of our play homes in the woods. I actually did try, but it didn't take long to realize just how far removed my current life is from all of that--city, noise, pollution, solitude. I think that's a major downfall to being an adult: even when you try to imagine your life as different, it's all of the current intricacies that keep you bolted down in what is real.

 

I began to wonder if I would ever again have a home in the woods. I tried to imagine a career scenario that would allow it. I've often dreamt of living Annie Dillard's solitary writing life in a cabin in North Puget Sound. I don't know how to make that happen; now, after living so deep in the city, I’m not sure I could. Like how I wanted to live alone in the desert and am now beginning to realize how crazy of an idea that was for me in particular.

 

The idea of life in the woods again feels distant & impossible, like the prospect that one day I would have a husband & children. The truth is that I don't know what I want. I know what I've had and what I've loved, but I cannot say with certainty what I want. This is a strange place for me --yes, me, the girl with the evolving 5-year plans. Maybe it's just today.

 

I soaked in as much of the silent time with the trees as I could. Those moments are extremely rare these days, so I sopped it all up like our campsite did the rain, & I packed myself home to return to the present, the city.

hope eventually

Well, here we are: the fourth of July. A day of hotdogs, fireworks, & good old Americana. This year, I’m escaping to the woods with a group of friends for a few days of camping.

I’m beyond excited to get out of the city. As much as I love it here, I am always missing the woods. And I am ready for some quiet. Seems like things have been chaotic lately—if it’s not one thing it’s another, right? Busy, busy: gogogo. I’ve been counting down for this: quiet, rest.

Even though there is a whole group of us going, all I want is solitude. I want some space to be alone. To write. To read (I got a new book just for this weekend). To enjoy the trees and birds and lack of metal buildings & loud people. I’m not sure I’ll be able to accomplish this, but it’s certainly a hope. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do that I haven’t had either time or brain power for.

Maybe thinking isn’t it, but I certainly need something. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I mean, here it is 1am, and I’m not even tired. Well, I’m tired, but not in the sleep way. I took a one-hour nap this afternoon since I only slept four hours last night too. Last night, I kept my mind occupied by cleaning the apartment. To actually think of things that would be productive to my goals or the present tense felt impossible. My mind felt blank and thus needed occupying since sleep wouldn’t come: hence cleaning.

After writing this, I suppose I should begin to pack for camping. I haven’t done a thing to prepare. I don’t even have food. I’ve already set my alarm to get up early enough to go shopping before our 8:30 departure. Hope the store is open.

Sometimes hope is all we have to hold onto. I think that is one of the best things in the world: hope. (And these three remain: faith, hope, & love.) You know how people will say not to “get your hopes up” for something you dreamt of happening? I’ve been thinking about that a lot & the ways that I have found myself losing hope in my own life or not letting myself have hope in certain scenarios.

I think it’s all bullshit. Why the hell shouldn’t we have hope? Without it, what do we have but a meaningless routine with no chance of improvement? Pessimism. People call me a pessimist sometimes, but I’ve always responded with saying I’m a realist (cliché, right?), but I mean it. I think faith and hope are closely tied—like in Ecclesiastes: a cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

That’s what faith, hope, & love are—three strands tightly knit together. So in this instance: faith and hope. I choose to believe that purpose exists for this earth. I choose to believe that we are not meant to lose hope in what could be.

Sure, we don’t always get what we want—we don’t always get what we hope for, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have hope at all.

Six years ago on this day, I had hope that Aunt Sharon would be okay. That she would pull through. I prayed for it. I hoped for it. It didn’t happen, but that doesn’t mean the hope or prayer was wasted. It becomes a new hope: I hope we meet again someday. All of us. I pray for it.

I believe in hope.

So while on this particular day, my hopes are small—to be alone in the woods, to make it to the store on time—it’s still important to know that we are not stuck where we currently are. We are not stuck because we have hope in something greater or at least that something greater than the most mundane moment will happen eventually.

reincarnated spirits

There is a man at the dog park who names his dogs after the city they were born in. No, the dog’s names are not the names of those cities. He goes further, looks up the obituaries from that city on the day the dogs were born and selects accordingly.

When asked about the dogs, he’ll say, “This is Alma; she was 87 and had six children…” The stories go on from there, & of course I can’t remember all of the details. “It’s a sort of reincarnation,” he describes.

I’ve thought about this a lot. Honestly, I find the concept quite beautiful. Sometimes, I think of Pickle as a reincarnation. Reincarnation: definition – “a spiritual or philosophical concept that the soul or spirit, after biological death, begins a new life in a new body.” (Wikipedia)

Unlike Alma, I don’t think that we get to choose who or what is reincarnated or what form they take. But I believe we can see reflections of that in those around us. For me, Pickle is a reincarnation of the spirit of hope, the spirit of joy. She has entered my life with the soul of a best friend. I’m sure it sounds corny, but these are things I thought I had lost, and I have found them in her.

All of this goes through my mind as she lies against my chest in bed tonight. I’m thinking of the beautiful day outside of the city and how I felt naked walking without my dog, how I felt a tinge of loneliness without her happy ears and bright eyes beside me.

I feel this loneliness often when I think about Derek, when I think about our closeness and all that I have lost in losing him.

Part of moving on after the death of a loved one is learning to regain that which you lost, not the person of course—they are always with you somehow—but regaining those quintessential spirits: joy, hope, tomorrow, love, trust.

Derek set a prime example of how a furry friend could bring those into one’s life. His dog, Casey, stayed by his side and brought him joy, hope during moments of deep illness, depression, anxiety. He taught me how to love & be loved by someone who will never speak our language but knows our thoughts, our emotions and loves us anyways—even when we cannot walk or do not have the strength to get up.

Sometimes I’m afraid that I will never have a friend like I had in Derek. I know that he cannot be “replaced”, yet I am learning to accept that there will be new best friends and new side-kicks. His relationship with Casey has showed me how to have that with Pickle, how to learn to keep going and have hope that there will be someone else on this planet that I can trust as deeply and love no matter what, even though we get mad or upset or make each other cry sometimes.

No, I don’t believe in reincarnation of the human soul, tempting as it is, but I do believe in the reincarnation of spirits or “fruits of the spirit” as the Bible calls them: “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness.”  (Galatians 5:22)

June is a month that reminds me of Derek. The 1^st—his birthday. The 21^st—the first day of summer, summers that we would spend together being wild, being free. And now, tomorrow marks 10 years since the passing of Mattie Stepanek, a young man with Muscular Dystrophy whom Derek admired (and I admire). In watching this video of Mattie from 2002, I can only pray that Derek had the same faith, the same hope.

So, friends, what spirits seem lost or distant? Do you see them reincarnated in your life?

Today, I saw faithfulness in the backdrop of a lonely church against the brilliant sky. I saw love in the eyes of my puppy, peace in her beating heart against my arm. I saw joy in time with friends and time in the wide open breaths of a sloshing river. 

In moments like these, I know Derek had it right in love of his dog, his family, his friends; Mattie had it right in hope for tomorrow and faith in God, and at the end of the day, “We need to be. Just be.”

home&hope

I’ve lost all sense of home. I’ve come to the realization that I find “home” in being able to control my life.

My family in Pennsylvania is entirely well and unwell at the same time, and there’s not a thing I can do from 3,000 miles away.

Not only can I not afford a plane ticket, but I apparently can’t afford to move to a new apartment. But I also cannot afford not to move, as our rent is about to skyrocket.

I’ve been diving through possibilities, and my hope has skyrocketed and plummeted about fifteen times just this week. Endless craigslist searching, phone calls, apartment visits. I cannot bring myself to pinch pennies for a 400 sq. ft. apartment. It’s just not worth it. Maybe I won’t be okay living alone, but I like to think that I would if I had just a little bit of space. I thought space was something people needed from each other—really, space is just something we need to feel comfort.

Growing up, Derek, Katlin, and I were obsessed with a computer game called the SIMS—a simulated life. We would build houses for these charaters that we created. We’d decorate with wallpaper and furniture, and then let them live out their lives in record time. They’d get jobs and sleep and talk in jibber-jabber. Building their homes was always my favorite part, but we could never make a complete home with the allotted beginning budget. We had to use a cheat to get more money to build what they needed (and then some). And when their houses were too small, they’d stand in the room with thought bubbles over their heads exclaiming “X#?!Y*%^” as they pulled at their heads and shook their fists in the air. A caption would appear saying “Your Sim is feeling cramped. She is unhappy because she doesn’t have enough space.”

I need space. I currently have to navigate around our couch to enter my matress on the floor from the top or bottom. There is no space. I sleep on a mattress on the floor. Our walls are coated with books—my nearest solace, yet my enemy because they take up even the illusion of space. And yet, I can’t bring myself to pick up a single one lately.

Sure, I shouldn’t complain. I’m twenty-two and have a load of opportunity unfolding. I have a mattress at least, even if it is on the floor. This is how twenty-two-year-olds are supposed to live. But I’ve never lived up to my age. I don’t know. I still make friends with thirty-somethings yet am continually the youngest—at work, at church, in my family.

I like to see it as progress—I’m doing something. I’m out here testing the waters. If life would have happened like it was supposed to, I’d really be in my last semester of college. Instead, I’m just a confused person searching for years that I cannot have.

I don’t want to be older. I don’t want to wish my life away. I just want to not have to hide my age. I want to not have to live like how people expect twenty-two-year-olds to live. I want a bed. I want space.

I think it’s the country coming out of me. I dream of water views just to feel like I’m not surrounded by steel. I dream of open lofts with natural light (a rarity here anyways, especially this time of year). When Pickle & I go for walks, we pass people in groves, always paired off. We watch groups party in their apartments or stumble across sidewalks with bottles in their hands and cigarettes between their fingers, laughing and talking about the next football game.

I don’t want to be them. I just don’t want to be this. I wantwantwant. Gross.

No one ever said anything would be easy. Ever. That’s so vague & cliché, but I’m learning it’s more true than I thought. Can I really be a city girl? I think I’m only pretending. I miss my car. I miss the road. I miss not caring if I had a bed or a couch. I’ve taken it all for granted.

I want to be grateful, but it’s hard when I realize that at 567 words (and counting) this blog post already has more words than I’ll ever see in square footage for the next few years.

I don’t want to settle, but I want to settle in. I don’t want to move every year, but the housing market here can’t keep up with itself, causing costs to rise and space to decrease, and there are so many people living on the streets, yet I can’t bring myself to settle for less. This is what I was afraid of when I moved to this city—I am becoming one of them, but something within me is fighting it. I’m glad for the fight, even though it hurts—I don’t want to be disappointed in my good fortune.

So how do I trust that this will all work out? That I won’t be one of those homeless street-sleepers in 30 days time? How do I care for a dog and myself and offer more than prayers for my blood back East? How do I care for the street-sleepers and do something more than just whine about my fortunate yet unsatisfying life?

I think about that a lot with Christianity. We are called to so much: to let go of things of this world and care for people. To love our brothers and give to them. But we are selfish; I am selfish. I want a nice home, a place to feel at home. I want to take care of myself first. Christianity just seems so extreme, and I think we are all failing because if we did it right, the way Jesus says to, we’d all be living on the street helping others along instead of freaking out about square footage and being simultaneaously in and out of the city.

So there is an internal battle going on. I’m not sure who’s winning. Frankly, I can’t bring myself to route for either side.

Tomorrow begins yet another day of endless searching. The apartment of my dreams, which I was set to view at 1:00 was rented out tonight at 8. I’m running out of options. I’m running out of steam, but I’ve never been one to settle. If I were, I wouldn’t be in Seattle; I wouldn’t be a college graduate; I wouldn’t be a seeking Christian; I wouldn’t be twenty-two, living on my own, and praying for the next road to be “right”.

I can’t decide if this experience is humbling, frustrating, or simply revealing my true selfishness. Probably the latter two. The thought of packing up my worldly possessoins again for my third move across town in a year and a half makes my stomach churn. The thought of home creates an unsettling tension between tall trees and tall buildings.

I need people. I’m a people-person, I admit. Yet I cannot bring myself to do this roommate thing again. I’ve been spoiled my whole life by fields, my own room, and a spacious home that my father built. People don’t live like that here—things are provided, not worked for. People seem entitled, not earning to deserve. Finding the old ways feels impossible, but it’s all I long for. Don’t give me your fancy brand-new buildings with a high price tag. Accept me as a transplant who knows what it’s like to hammer a nail into wood and feel accomplished, who is willing to put in the hours to gain the reward of creation, not a paycheck, who cares to the point of insanity, even if there is no resolve, who will not choose to become the typical Seattlelite. I’m a Seattlelite now for sure—I’ve got all the signs of it: a dog, urban life, working for a Redmond-born company—but I’m still a small “town” girl with a heart longing to earn what I get and aspiring to deserve it before I expect it. I realize that at twenty-two, with little life accomplishment, I currently deserve very little.

Maybe this all sounds pretentious. I’m not sure. All I know is that I believe in hard work, manual labor, and the fruits of living off the land, even if those aren’t entirely my way of life at present. Isn’t that how the American Dream got started to begin with? Freedom, independence, hope.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. –Hebrews 11:1

Don’t squash my hope again, Seattle. Hope is strong and keeps coming back. I’ve got a lot of hope—in God, for my family, for the future, for happiness.

1corinthian8.2-3

I love people. I’m a people-person, you could say. But I am also an introvert. Is that possible? I say yes because I don’t really believe in introverts or extroverts as personality types but more of leanings. I guess I would be an introverted extrovert, as I am, well, a people person, but I also love and long for time alone.

After the busy rush of summer, I find myself a tad burnt out. I can’t even recall in my mind where it all went. It’s hard to believe that we still went to work during the summer. Fall feels like the buckling down to get shit done. Play time’s over. Work-wise, that is. In the rest of my life, I am just longing for time alone and time in books and yarn and the bathtub.

Partly, I just want solitude—to be able to live without a stressful schedule, to not have to worry about plans with people. I want to seclude myself. I want to just spend some time with God, the way I used to, before God meant Jesus too. I used to go into the woods and read poetry and climb trees and write poems and smell the air and feel God, talk to him. I imagine being secluded like Annie Dillard in her little cabin along the Sound in The Writing Life. Just chopping wood. I love hauling firewood, not that I can chop it.

I like to think that this solitude would fix me. Like praying or talking to God would solve all of my problems, so I wouldn’t have to worry or wouldn’t have a bad temper or say so many awful things. But when we are alone for a while and go back into the world, do we remain “changed”? No. We go right back to they way we were, maybe even more irritated at how people can be, forgetting that we are just the same.

Like each morning, I get up and read and pray and usually feel quite content going into a new day. Then I get out of bed. I go to work, and my mouth betrays me. I ride the bus, and my head thinks poorly.

It’s like when I am around my family after a long absence. I think I have changed, but I will always be who they think I am, so they treat me so, and I act accordingly. They treat me like who I used to be, and I revert back to that because that is how I know to respond.

It’s so wrong and ugly, and it all just makes me more aware that I cannot change myself. We weren’t created to live alone and try to become perfect stones on an empty beach. We were created to live in community and be messy and be real.

Today I tried to cheat that. I got off the bus downtown and just walked amongst the crowd, pretending to be one of them, making pretend that I fit in, like I was known. When I got home, I dreaded the fun music shindig that we were hosting; I didn’t want to go; I wanted to be alone. But of course I went anyways and really did have fun and really did feel like I fit in, like I was known because I was around people whom I love. Life is not solitude, not even solitude with God because how can we love God if we do not love his people? Don’t you get to know an artist through her creations? A writer by her words? 

From the Emerald City to Oz

Sometimes God’s grace comes in the form of a hot air balloon on a foggy Saturday morning.

“It could sort of be related to the Wizard of Oz,” Laura hints as I try to guess the “birthday surprise” that’s been booked on my calendar for a month.

“Flying monkeys?!” A solid guess, right?

I’ve been studying impatience lately. My impatience. Reading through a devotional book with a good friend—a book on change, a book on hope. My focus is impatience. It’s my big weakness that leads to other weaknesses. It hits fast and hard, and before I know it, I am standing at the end of the bridge crying that I have no control over my life. Thank God I don’t! The funny conundrum is just that I won’t stop having these moments until I fully recognize my lack of control and stop trying to gain it.

Friday morning, I came in from walking Pickle. A bouquet of flowers awaited with a card that read, “Here is your hint: We live in the Emerald City; somewhere over the rainbow.” I had a guess, but it seemed too crazy, too extreme.

We woke up at 5am. On a Saturday. Dressed, drove, and arrived.

“Pull into the McDonald’s on the right,” Laura directed. McDonald’s? wha-? Then I saw them—two vans, each with a trailer pulling a large basket. My wildest guess was true! Hot air balloons.

The other passengers’ conversations purred in sleepy excitement. We arrived at the site, and the pilots sent a balloon up to check the wind. A few minutes later, the pilot came back, “We’re going to have to bag it, folks.” My heart sank. All of that excitement for nothing?!  The sky was heavily cloudy with a light drizzle of rain.

Disappointed, we drove back to Seattle. They called us later that morning to say they had flight openings that night. Laura had plans with Kyle that were really important to him. Impatient Natalie wanted to say, No! This is our only chance! But instead, I told Laura that was how I felt, but I knew that I was just being impatient. So I prayed about it and asked to trust that regardless of what happened—if we flew or not!—God’s plan is good, way better than I could plan. And it was the fastest answer to prayer I’ve ever witnessed.

That afternoon, they called again—we could fly the next evening when we were all available.

I have to admit, I felt pretty silly asking for God’s good plan to work out with something as inordinary yet first-world as a hot air balloon ride.

We arrived, watched them inflate the giant canvas, and climbed into the levitating basket. Soon enough, we were floating. In a simply smooth lift, we started going up. At first, I felt a panicked excitement: what is this that we are so high yet bound by nothing? What if I fall?

Once we reached our peak at 4,000ft, we were used to the feel of being in the basket. The evening was bright and clear with a SouthEast wind. Mt. Baker stood to the North of us; Mt. Rainier lay across the South. Seattle was like a little row of jelly beans sitting next to the water. We could see more islands than I could name. The sun was nearing dusk, displaying creation’s best colors.

We landed smoothly, safely—after our pilot patiently searched the upcoming miles for open land among the trees.

The pilots drove us back to our meeting place—not McDonalds this time, but Matthews Winery, where we enjoyed a complimentary tasting. Sipping Syrah and still envisioning the survey of land  & sky when I closed my eyes, I thanked God for such a beautiful day and for the patience to wait and the excitement that goes along with it.

So much better than a foggy Saturday morning. 

(Did I mention that I'm twenty-two. I think all of my fears that came with that number feel recovered by staring my own mortality in the face in the form of a 4,000 ft. drop with nothing to hold me in. Numbers are nonsense. When Derek turned twenty-two, we celebrated, not knowing it would be his last birthday. I'm celebrating too; here's to being twenty-two.)

death, i think, is no parenthesis (cummings)