I hear pretty regularly, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” And maybe that’s true, but everyone of us have challenges. I had a friend of mine who has battled cancer for years say that to me the other day. I had a single mom friend of mine say the same thing. Sure, this exact situation looks different for me than for them, but it is challenging nonetheless.

I rarely get preachy here, and this won’t be, but there is this passage of scripture that the Apostle Paul directs the church to “bear one another’s burdens.” We are to carry the burdens of each other. This isn’t a masochistic directive- that it’s better for me or Tiffanni if everyone experiences Huntington’s. In fact, that wouldn’t be better- this disease is evil. He isn’t telling us to divvy out diseases as much as he is saying, share the load. While there is no way to carry the disease, there are other loads that can be carried.

You see, if the disease was all that we had to deal with, then that would be manageable in a sense. All of our attention could go to support, focus, disease control- but there are a few other things that bring pressure. Life alone brings with itself pressure from relationships, job, raising children and all of their extracurricular needs, education, paying bills, car maintenance, lawncare, home upkeep, recreation, you know- life. And it’s there that my life has been engulfed by burden bearers. People who lift, carry, and unload in a way that is incomprehensible. For so many of you that have lifted a load, you don’t think it’s much. In fact, you usually say, “I know this isn’t much, but…” However, at some point, each load, each lift adds up.

For a couple of years, before my parents moved in, there was a lady who picked up our laundry on Tuesdays and brought it back on Wednesday. Every week. Folded, clean, and ready to be played in, grimed on again.

For years, people signed a list to bring us food several times a week. One of the best parts about that was we always got everyone’s best meal! Southern chefs, cooking their best to feed my family. I didn’t have to come home and open cabinets and cans, pots and pans- I didn’t have to feed Tiff and the kids pizza and fast food. We ate like kings- redneck kings.

There is a lady that comes every month and deep cleans my house. Sweeps, mops, toilets, showers, vacuums, makes beds, hands and knees, sweat and toil- cleans. This last time she handed me money to go take Tiff to our weekly Dairy Queen date. Yeah, handed me money- to clean my house.

My kids go to the greatest school. The teachers are fully aware of our situation and realized on their own that my kids were going to get half-attention on my best day. From the principal to each teacher- they each get one-on-one, hands on attention (not the same kind I got when I was a kid). Private tutors. Private project helpers. Homework overseers. Test preparers. I’m not sure that the kids love it, but I’m knocked over.

Tiffanni makes an appointment to have her hair cut and colored every other month. It’s not like it’s easy to cut and color a head that can’t stop moving, but her stylist treats her like she’s a queen and she’s pampered for half a day. The kids and I haven’t paid for a haircut in years. We make an appointment, show up, get cut, give hugs and walk out the door.

Last night a friend of mine took me to a fancy restaurant. I was never one for fancy restaurants and one summer five years ago, Tiffanni and I went to NYC to visit our friends. We walked into a five-star, chef prepared place and ordered. For the next two hours, we ate the best food I had ever had in my life. It was like I had awakened to this new world that I never knew existed. A light went off and I said to myself, “Oh, so this is what this is all about.” The food was amazing, the company even better. Relationships around the table are sacred. Who knew. So, last night we ate the best Italian food I’ve ever had where I relaxed and talked and enjoyed myself. An easy night with good food.

A friend of mine gave me an above ground pool the other day. You know, just a pool. Tiffanni does so good in pools. The water lightens her body and stills her movements. Another friend brought his bobcat and dump truck over, dug a hole, leveled the sand, and prepared the whole area. An easy summer.

A year and a half ago, my sister gave me a subscription to a massage place. I go every month, relax, and let all of the toxins out- at least that’s what they tell me. All I know is that it feels amazing. I catch myself counting down the minutes until it’s over because I’m so sad that it has to end.

Another friend of mine makes all of our Halloween and school/church play and production costumes. My kids have been flowers and animals, celebrities and cowboys, Daniel Boone and dancers. You name it- she’s made it.

I have two young ladies that came through our youth ministry that come and sit with Tiff every week. They talk to her, do her nails, make her meals, help her do all of her daily we-take-it-for-granted stuff. They show up at kids ballgames, play board games, and cart kids around.

When Addyson turned 12 last year and was going into 7th grade, another friend of mine took her on a make-up spree. How to’s and bags of make-up. Just another something that I would have never figured out how to do.

For years, every end of summer, my sister and her mate (get it), come take the kids school shoes shopping. “Get whatever you want.” As if that’s not painful enough, they take them all at once. I don’t want to shop for my own shoes, much less someone else’s.

I have a young lady in our lives that has committed to teach the kids art all summer. Their own summer school. Every week a project that builds on top of the other. And before you see this as just something else, art matters. In all of the ugly that is in the kids’ lives, art reassures them that beauty exists. Sometimes it has to be noticed, sometimes it has to be created, but beauty is there.

And then of course, there’s my parents. “Stability is important,” my dad told me. “We’ll be there as soon as we get everything settled here.” And that was that. They left their jobs, their friends, their calling, and their empty-nest-we-finally-did-it-all-the-kids-are-grown-and-out-of-the-house-and-we-can-celebrate lives, moved down, and started over. With kids. We sit at my dinner table nearly every day and act like a normal family. And they’ve just about got me convinced that we are. The laundry is done, the dishes washed, the kids are at school, there’s food on the table, the grass is mowed, the house is clean, my children are happy and vibrant and thriving, and the dog stays fed. And every bit of that matters when raising kids. The normal stuff gets taken care of so that the kids never feel abnormal. They have enough in their lives to feel different about.

So no, no one has lifted Huntington’s off of our plate. It’s still there, daunting and evil, over-bearing and encroaching. But when it’s the only thing that I lift, and I obviously don’t do it alone, it feels manageable. At least today. We’ll make it today and I’m sure we’ll get some more help tomorrow.

I walked in the door to tears. It’s hard enough to understand anyone when they are crying, but Tiffanni is extra hard. She was inconsolable so I begged her to stop crying long enough to tell me what was wrong. “Stacey got a Mother’s Day dress and I don’t have a Mother’s Day dress.”

Tiffanni had just returned from going out with her parents. Their greatest gift to me might be taking her to the mall several times a month. I don’t think that I’ve been inside a mall in three years. I can live the rest of my life outside of malls and never miss out on fun, contentedness, satisfaction, or sanity. In fact, I’ll stockpile them.

There was a time that Tiffanni and I “discussed” what we would do on our off-day together. About every other one, Tiff had some house project, piece of furniture to buy, pair of shoes to scout, something that resided outside of the wheelhouse of what I would consider an off-day. Every other off-day was the exact opposite- a day of work and grief and pain and toil. My offers were walks in the state park, bowling, road trips, long dinners, and movies. Hers- torture.

Even her movie choices were painful. I dreaded the movies because every other trip was a ladies’ choice and her pick epitomized the over-worked, baby-drained, mindless, popcornfest chick-flick. “I just don’t wanna think today.” So instead she cried. Not like eyes-welled-up cry, boo-hoo please stop people are staring waterworks mascara-stained somebody died cry. I’m not sure how she constantly wanted those kind of movies, I was always willing to give her the somebody died movies- just not from cancer- I offered war, sacrifice, and revenge. Nope, she wanted the rich guy that falls for the prostitute kind of persecution.

Avoiding the mall for the last several years has extended my life by years, but not that particular day. Tiffanni wanted a Mother’s Day dress and didn’t have one. I couldn’t tell if she was mad or sad, “We’ll get you a dress. You always have a Mother’s Day dress and we’ve got a few weeks anyway.”

Maybe I’m reading too far into it, but sometimes it seems that she is holding onto as much of what used to be as she can. There are ways that even in her diminished capacity, it’s obvious that her motherhood-ness has lessened. The way that she would have mothered, she just isn’t able to do now and maybe she holds on to any semblance of that.

So, she was inconsolable. For hours. This is a fairly new change for us. Once she begins to cry over something, that is usually irrational, she can’t stop. I couldn’t distract her, couldn’t entertain her, couldn’t get her to eat. Despair was all that she could feel. We both felt helpless.

Over the last six months, these irrational moments of despondency either happen during the day with a reprieve at bedtime, or they happen at night- lasting the entire night and breaking by the next morning. However, the last couple of instances haven’t obeyed those borders. Encroaching on both halves of the day, they senselessly drain all lucidity from our lives. For hours.

When 9:30pm rolled around, seven hours later, and nothing had changed, I began to prepare myself for the long night ahead. Looking at the next morning’s schedule, what would I have to cancel, what would I have to move around? What was mundane enough to function through on no sleep? In college, I remember powering through days and nights with very little sleep and loving every minute of it. But that was a tired caused by FOMO- fear of missing out. This is a tired caused by physical and mental exhaustion.

I won’t pretend that I protect the kids from all of this. I try, my parents try, but it’s impossible to hide. At 9:30pm the girls asked me, “Dad, are you coming to pray for us or what?!” Thirty minutes late, I lumbered into their rooms for the nightly routine. “What’s wrong dad? Why is mom upset?”

“It’s nothing, let’s pray so that you two can get some sleep. You’ve got school in the morning and we’re already 30 minutes late.”

“What is it?” they insisted.

“It’s nothing. Mom just wanted a Mother’s Day dress and has been upset that she doesn’t have one.” And before I knew it, they were out of the bed and in my closet. With Tiffanni maintaining a low-wail, the girls were on a mission.

“Momma, you have a Mother’s Day dress in the closet,” Addyson exclaimed.

“I do?” she said.

“Yes, look right here. It’s still got the tags on it. Oh, and it’s so pretty.”

Carsyn joined in as if they had rehearsed the one-act play, “Look at the pretty neckline. And the colors. This will look so good on you momma.”

“And you can wear these ear rings,” she pulled open Tiffanni’s sparse jewelry drawer. “And this necklace.”

“Do you want to wear these khaki pants or tights.” It wasn’t a question, just an onslaught of bait-and-switch, a barrage of sensory overload.

“Yeah momma, you’ll look so pretty. Dad will get you flowers and we’ll go to breakfast like we always do.”

“You’ll be the prettiest one in the whole building.” Tiffanni’s eyes widened, the corners of her mouth loosened. And I watched, dumbfounded, as my girls rescued my already-lost evening. Holding up a dress in one hand, earrings and a necklace in the other, they looked like a bridal team on wedding day as they surrounded their mom with love and excitement at 9:30pm. It took ten minutes. What I tried to do for seven hours, distract and refocus, they did intuitively. A choreographed dance, peddling anticipation and beauty with hand-me-down jewelry and closeted-fashion, “We’ve got you dad,” they said.

We got Tiff settled and I escorted the girls to their rooms. Back in the bed I couldn’t stop my head from spinning, “Do you have any idea what you just did?” They smiled. Prayers and hugs and kisses I returned to my room to see Tiffanni lying on her side, eyes closed, sound asleep, where we slept all night.

I’ve never experienced writer’s block. I have sat down to write and only lousy writing came out. I’ve sat down at a piano and tried to put two lines together that flowed and gave the feels only to leave frustrated and regretful that I ever read Dr. Seuss. But I’ve never really experienced that sensation of, there’s nothing there.

I suppose that my real writer friends would laugh and think, “Oh grasshopper, just you wait.” And my non-writer friends might think, “Well no, there’s always something to say. Just talk about your week. Anybody can talk about their week. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a great book idea that I’m about to start writing.”

I’ve had a handful of people over the last year tell me that they were going to write a book. Asked me for some tips. Apparently the expert bar has been set very low.

Several years ago I contacted a teacher at our local liberal arts university and asked for a meeting. “I’d like to write a book.” She was so kind, gracious, and I’m sure had heard it a hundred times. Two years before that I told a brand new friend of mine that I had just met in Canon Beach, OR the same thing. She was accomplished, published, and connected. “I’d like to write a book.” Same look my college professor would mimic two years later. It’s that look of grace and realism. I imagine that every once in awhile someone actually says that, writes a book, and it’s good. So, there’s this fraction of a percentage of a chance that real writers have to oblige because someone did it for them.

The other day I stumbled upon an article for accomplished people. Multitaskers, career go-getters, power-users, ladder-climbers. The article gave advice about how to fly at a high altitude in your career and life. “Set a five year goal and then crush it in 6-months.” Crush it.

I really do want to write a book.

Like, really.

The first time that I seriously said it, thought it, meant it, was over five years ago. I began to call around to some of my old High School English teachers and ask if they knew anyone who could tutor me in creative writing. It was my subtle hint for that teacher to offer. None did, so I asked point blank, “Any chance that you would be interested in helping me?” I got all No’s. Quick no’s at that. Which some might think surprising because of my gift for persuasion. I’ve talked my brothers into dozens of things that were counter-intuitive to common sense. Nope, all no’s.

Undiscouraged, I called the local university and begged into my first writing classes. Three in all. Three semesters of beginning a discipline from scratch. It was beyond beneficial for me. Maybe most importantly, I realized that I had a million miles to go to write well. That first assignment was terrifying. The second, not much easier. But I kept turning in assignments. I began to read “How to” books on writing and systematically apply what I was learning. And I started reading better books. Almost to the point of snobbery. Pulp Fiction wasn’t good enough anymore. I had to read stories with depth, and arc, and characters- but not just one dimensional characters- I needed broken heroes and misunderstood villains. Genre didn’t matter anymore- I wanted guts and brains and stories- masterful stories. The cheap sentimentality and lazy melodrama stuck out for the bad writing that it was. I wanted the feels and I wanted the author to earn every bit of it.

Writing became work. But not working for the man, punching the clock, everybody’s working for the weekend, daily grind kind of work. It became pre-sin Adam and Eve work. Remember the curse was that what mankind would do for industry would be a struggle- laborious and toiling. Before all of the talking snake stuff, Adam and Eve worked and were fulfilled in their effort. They felt satisfied, content, accomplished. And writing is becoming that for me. I’m starting to discover my voice. Noticing areas of growth and challenge. And most importantly, enjoying the process.

Steven King says that writing is less about creating anything and more about excavating. Writers, artists for that matter, aren’t so much creators as they are archaeologists. That story, song, painting doesn’t need to be invented, it needs to be discovered- hiding down in the depths of the soul. Longing to express. And it’s that process that has been so satisfying to me. I sit down with little to no agenda and finish with a reflection that expresses a truth that I hold. Hard truths, easy truths, but all truths.

I really do want to write a book. And today I declare a five year goal. In all, that’ll make ten. Ten years of purposed, intentional education and training. Ten years of discipline and pen to paper. But here’s the thing. I have no need to crush it. There’s nothing about finishing in six months that appeals to me. This process, this journey, has been too fun and challenging to rush. The writer I was five years ago is far less talented than the writer I am today. And I can only assume that the writer I am five years from now is more skilled as well. There are no shortcuts to growth, only short-circuits. If you’ll stick with me here for awhile, we’ll just grow together. Who knows, maybe five years from now I will have discovered that story that’s down in there screaming to get out, dying to be read and heard and felt. And the last thing that I’d ever want to do to it, is crush it.

I wrote my fifty-second post last week. One post for every week over the past year. More than once I woke up on Wednesday morning with very little sleep and no clue what to write about. Maybe it shows. But, I never skipped a week. I went through the chore, some days joy, of sitting at my desk and downloading my thoughts. And I did it for me.

About six years ago I wanted to start a blog. The problem was that I just didn’t think that I had anything to say. I’m almost certain that I didn’t. I kicked around several ideas before I realized that other people were already saying what I thought that I wanted to say much better. Then Tiffanni was diagnosed with Huntington’s. And I didn’t want to write anymore.

I really didn’t want to do anything anymore. I didn’t want to serve in ministry. I didn’t want to talk to people about how I felt. I didn’t want to sing, or preach, or write music, or exercise, or go to church, or eat, or laugh, or get out of the bed. I did a lot of stuff, but I didn’t want to do any of it. And I definitely didn’t want to write.

And then just a little over a year ago, through some encouragement from my friends, I began to think that maybe I had something to say. And it was okay if I just needed to say it, no one had to read it, but I needed to go through the discipline of processing my thoughts. I needed to re-member- to take the fragments of scattered moments and connect them to some semblance of purpose, or hope, or sanity. Sometimes I needed to connect them to chaos, loneliness, and despair. But they had to be connected. I couldn’t just let thoughts come and go without thinking about them.

I never told you about the Catholic monk from the 16th century that led me on my journey over the last year. Ignatius of Loyola. I discovered him back in 2008 and he and I have explored my inner life off and on for almost 10 years. He had this brilliant thought that God could be seen inside of our greatest moments and our darkest moments. Inside of the times that I felt far away from grace and the moments that I naturally danced to its rhythms. Through the Ignatian Examen, every week I worked through these basic thoughts: “Where do I see God?” “Where do I feel God is absent?” Every week, I’ve written from every angle that I can think of about our journey of life and death.

Today, I’d like to think through those questions over the course of a year. In fifty-two weeks, three hundred sixty-five days, twelve months- where is God, where is he not? Where does he feel close, where does he feel a million miles away?

A few nights ago, I sat at a long 9-year old boys’ baseball game. For some illogical reason, this league has decided that it’s time for kids at 9 to learn how to pitch. So, we watch 2 and 3 inning games, while kids learn how to take a walk. Over and over and over. During the Novocaine-less teeth pulling, I found myself sitting next to a black lady who teaches in one of the worst school systems in central Alabama. Testing is low, scores are low, parental involvement low, funding low, resources low, hope low. We began to talk about her job. Discouraged, she told me of her frustrations- a system that doesn’t, hasn’t worked for her kids. Her babies. I asked her leading questions. I wanted to hear her share her heart. Finally I asked her, “Do you ever feel guilty?” Tears welled up in her eyes as she uncorked her feelings. With a stranger. Anger, exasperation, hopelessness, failure. Unfortunately, I am going to make this story about me, but I don’t naturally bring out depth and honesty, introspection and sincerity. I don’t naturally exude empathy. It’s not part of my personality, it’s not my default setting. At least it wasn’t. But over the last year, I’ve had dozens of these conversations. Dozens. She doesn’t know my story. But she felt a kindred pain, someone who would be sad with her. I think. I’ve had so many people be sad with me this year, I think they rubbed off on me. Some days, people just need to be sad. Without sadness, no one receives a calling. No one fosters a child. No one marches for something important. No one feeds the hungry. No one visits the prison. No one gives to a single mom. No one changes. Sadness is good. Huntington’s is sad. And maybe I could have learned that another way, but I’ve learned it now.

Yesterday, I took Tiffanni to her doctor’s appointment. Back in January, we were asked if she would like to participate in a global study. She would be entered into a database that would be available to doctors and researchers all over the world. Assigned an anonymous number, doctors would track her progression in order to formulate hypotheses and then test those hypotheses against all of the people in the database. “Of course,” I said. Anything to kill this disease. The problem was the evaluation. Each question made me more discouraged. I sat in the room, fighting tears at times, as Tiffanni tried her best to answer questions, mimic movements, and perform for the evaluation. It was miserable. It’s easy to pretend like nothing is different, nothing has changed. In fact, my subconscious aids in that agenda. It has a strong aversion to pain and will lie to avoid it. But the evaluation was undeniable. She is worse. I should have been able to notice it on my own. I mean, I pushed her into the office in a wheelchair. That’s the problem with reflection, you actually see what’s in the mirror. A year went by while I was writing this blog, words on a page, comments and views and likes and shares and friend requests and private messages and little emoticons, and while all that was going on, she got worse. A year further from what we had and another year with what we have.

I laid in the bed with each of my kids tonight. Brayden read to me. He and I sounded out new words (recapitulation-really? I’m supposed to explain that at bedtime? Thanks Geronimo Stilton you pretentious jerk.) We giggled and I snuck in a few tickles between pages. He’s a touchy, affectionate kid and kept throwing his leg over mine. Digging his head into my arm socket. I wish that I never made him stop. The girls tried to bribe me for more time by rubbing my feet and playing with my hair. I’m on to them. It worked anyway- I needed some pampering. Each one told me about her day- the good and the bad. I’m getting better at listening, at being fully present. And trust me, that’s hard because they have never-ending stories, infinite drama. But we laugh and gasp, and I repeat back punchlines and consternations. “She said what?!” “No, he didn’t.” I’ve had to discover a balance between escaping and parenting. They are my sanity, and yet still need me as dad. In some ways this disease is forcing them into what should only be adult emotions, so I compensate by fighting hard to keep them young. They don’t do cell phones (apparently every middle schooler in the world has one and “it’s not fair”), social media, or boyfriends. Huntington’s has stolen enough, it’s not taking their entire childhood. So, we laid there and talked. I didn’t have anywhere to be. I didn’t have anything DVR’d to watch. No video game or Netflix binge to get to. I forgot that I had Facebook and Instagram. Besides, my friends only posts pictures of babies and food. Meh. I was enthralled by the allure of the most beautiful girls in the world. And I just don’t know if I would have those moments in my other life- my ideal life. they might have evaded me for stuff. Less important stuff. But now they seem like serendipitous lottery tickets. The moments that might have gotten away, but now scream to be lived. To be experienced. So I do.

God has been close this year.

One of my favorite books of all time is The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe. It’s one of the most compelling, exciting stories that I have ever read. It has intrigue and adventure, good and evil, deception and humanity, magic and mystery- and animals that talk! A journey through excitement, and pain and loss, and excitement again. When the Pevensie kids arrive in Narnia, it’s “always winter, but never Christmas.” But Aslan is on the move. He is anticipated in that winter through every page, every conversation. The story doesn’t go as expected, but ends with brilliance and hope. A year ago, I began to dream about writing a book. And for some reason I looked up the word count of The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe. Over Thirty-six thousand words. It might as well have said a million. I laughed. And yet somehow, every week I came here and wrote. I wrote about excitement, pain and loss, and excitement again. And you journeyed through this adventure with me. You commented and shared and loved me with your own words. You encouraged me to keep writing, that it mattered, that you cared. And I believed you. Last week I finished my fifty-second post- a one-year journey shared with people I know and others that I don’t. And I honestly think that I loved it. Thank you for reading my words and loving me with your time- Last year, in those fifty-two posts, I wrote 43,815 words for me- to reflect and remember, but I’ve loved sharing every single one of them with you.

 

I asked for my first backpack when I was in fifth grade. Equipment was pretty clunky in the 80’s. The frame was made out of plastic and polyester and looked like it was built out of an erector set. It was a generation before main-stream freeze-dried meals so we carried the lightest food that we could find- basically anything that wasn’t in a can. Except for sardines and vienna sausages- worthy of the can, not so much the stomach.

If I’m being honest, typically my goal, I hated backpacking. Not the friends, and camping, and sitting by the fire, and burly-man honesty- I hated the backpacking. Traversing mountains is hard enough on my own, but with a 30-pound pack strapped uncomfortably to my shoulders and waist it was miserable. Plastic frame imprinted into my flesh, a waist strap that dug into my hips, and boots that would have drowned me were I to swim in them made for a miserable hike. We never hiked at a comfortable pace, no, hiking is just like driving for men- there is only one lane.

But I kept going. There’s a tradeoff that far outweighs the physical pain of trailblazing. It’s what happens around a campfire. It’s sleeping under the stars. It’s unplugging from the deafening noise of the mundane. It’s the conversation that can only happen between a man and a boy when the jetsetter group is far ahead and the slow group with the contraband cangood loaded packs are falling behind. Life conversations. The minimal words that happen between companioned miles. That life-giving interchange takes place as much, if not more, in Silence as it does in the verbal exchange. In a world that excesses in every communication medium, the trail requires the opposite. Listening.

After my freshman year of seminary, I stopped for two nights at a campground on the way home to listen again. I hadn’t camped in years. With nothing but my Bible and a tent, I spent two days alone. There is nothing more arduous to a noise-satiated mind than Silence. Saturated in speed and busyness, tedium and distraction- Silence hurts. I think that’s why many of us get so frustrated when we set aside time for devotional quiet and quit out of the difficulty. “I expected something to happen and all I got was nothing.” It’s why everyone in America has a guitar in the closet and only a fraction play. It actually takes work. Anyone can sit down, only a few can listen.

Ten years ago I took my first group of teenagers backpacking. Silence called. I knew that if I could just get them away from their noise-eroding real-life worlds, then they could hear. It had been years since the trail had spoken and I had my doubts. When you haven’t sensed the beauty of Silence in a long time, it’s easy to question if it ever spoke at all. The trail didn’t disappoint. As we sat around the campfire that first night, sparks danced toward the sky, wood crackled, acorns fell and teenagers bore their souls. A symphony of soul-work orchestrated by Silence. God has written two sacred books- the Bible and Creation. They work in tandem to reveal his character and nature, his goodness and purposes and we work way too hard avoiding both.

Last weekend I took my kids backpacking. Silence called. They are convincing in their attempts to prove to me how much they love it, but I have my doubts. It might be the only space in their lives that they get my full attention. Silence does that. We only had 24 hours, but I am a veteran of the trail. “Don’t rush, we’re in no hurry today.” We began our trek. I pointed out unique trees, solitary flowers, scurrying squirrels, chirping birds, the creek’s splash, all a precursor to the song of Silence.

With Carsyn and Brayden pioneering the trail ahead, Addyson lagging behind with something on her mind, she asked between quarter-mile markers, “Dad, do you miss mom.” In that moment, it didn’t occur to me that she could be asking several different things. “She’s at home with a sitter, do you wish she was here?” “We’ve been away for a few hours, do you miss mom?” But the trail had already begun to speak and all I heard was, “I don’t remember a time when mom was well. I know that you do- do you miss that time?”

“I do. I miss her a lot.” And with that, the trail began. We make up games when we’re hiking. They love lateral-thinking puzzles. The ones where I give a scenario and they can only ask questions in order to solve the riddle that require a yes or no answer. “A man pushed his car. He stopped when he reached a hotel at which point he knew he was bankrupt. Why?” That’s tricky for my kids because I’ve become a board game snob- they’ve never even played Monopoly. On this particular trail, there were markers every quarter-mile. Instead of them fighting over who would lead, I took the head and let each one spend a quarter-mile with me. At each juncture, we would shift front to back, middle to front, and I would start or continue a conversation of either dialogue or Silence. Both beautiful, both purposeful.

After six miles that first day, we made camp beside a charming running creek, built a fire, and ate dinner. The kids pointed out the sounds to one another- rustling and crackling, fluttering and snaps. We watched the fire blaze and slowly die. Hot coals and moonlight piercing through the trees lit our chapel, revealing satisfied faces, contented souls- and I loved every minute of it.

There’s something magical about the trail. It demands attention. On the second day, we passed a man by himself, talking on his cell phone. My kids gawked at him as if he was an alien while he passed. “Did you see that guy Dad? He was on his cellphone. Why even be out here?” They get it. There are sacred spaces that are easily desecrated by what we spend the majority of our lives doing. Spaces that live and breathe, speak and dance to the beauty of the Creator. Once connected, distractions dismissed, our souls are free to say what they need to say, hear what is hard to hear, and heal what is broken and overlooked. Through blistered feet, over-burdened shoulder straps, chafed hips, and sore calves, the trail is hard, Silence is hard, soul work is hard. But it’s good.