The Journey

I have always been a "closure" person. It may be sappy and sentimental -- but that's the way I'm wired. I remember being upset at our senior all-nighter because I really wanted to form a big circle and sing "Friends are Friends Forever" (good ol' Michael W. Smith) before we all got on the bus and drove away, never to see each other again. (Or at least until 10 years later in the Meijer produce section.) But that "Kum ba Yah" moment never transpired and I dropped tears on the green, plastic bus seat all the way back to Hudsonville.

So, at the end of a family vacation, I often find myself brushing away tears. Tim looks at me like I'm crazy, even more so when I can't seem to explain "what's wrong," because often it's nothing that's wrong. It's the way things are, at that moment, the way they'll never be again, that seems to be the big deal to me.

For most of my life, my family has traveled up to the Upper Peninsula for a summer camping/cottage/outdoorsy trip. And each year seems to signify a specific time in life, a stage of our family. I remember three years ago, writing in a journal as Tim and I drove over the Mackinaw Bridge. I was praying for a baby, for a job, praying that it all would come together. And it did. God provided everything at just the right moment.

I remember being a just-graduated college student, canoeing down the AuSable River, no idea what was around the next bend -- literally and figuratively. I was a bit lost, but enjoying the view.

I remember several years before -- back when we traveled in the Caprice Classic, Erin between Mom and Dad in the front, me between Kristin and David in the back (so they wouldn't fight), playing "Travel Bingo" as we drove, stopping at Mama Mia's Pizzeria in Mackinaw City and taking turns going outside to watch the "live video" of the upstairs waiting room, where the rest of the family would be waving.

I remember the time Dad got a really great deal at the "Generic Motel." Only $10 a night and we found out very quickly why. The plain room (or trailer) had a few beds and nothing else. We had left the sun of West Michigan to travel all the way to the middle of no where, where it was pouring rain. Mom went to bed early and Dad took us kids for a ride to discover, yep, there was definitely no place to go or nothing to do. We went to bed listening to coyotes howl in the distance.

And so at the end of a vacation -- a year when we had great campfire fish stories, spent much time chasing toddlers around, (or the toddlers chased us around in a Dune Buggy that they had no idea how to steer), tried to hike six miles with a sleeping child, celebrated Lori's birthday in style at the classic "Dogpatch" Restaurant in Munising, watched the Tigers (lose) and played Scrabble (lost again) on a rainy day, let Caleb climb up to and underneath waterfalls, chased seagulls, and waded in the mind-numbing waters of Lake Superior -- I see it as picture in time, a portrait of where we're at in life, and how much we have to be thankful for. And usually I get a little teary eyed.

But this year, strapping Caleb in, hooking up the DVD player, getting him set for long journey home, we were 20 miles down the road before I turned to Tim and said, "Hey look, I'm not crying." And even that is a testament to the view from the window of my life right now.