Drives

It was the driving. The road trips where we would interlock hands, and calm crying babies, and dream. It was to-and-from Atlanta, at first. My head often laid in his lap, he processing some far fetched dream. Take a drive. Then it was the windy, wild California cost - so many times. We would smell the salt air, and air out our differences, and share our deepest hearts, and dream. Always dream. It was in the car, on a cliff outside of Davenport where he shared that he had been struggling with watching things that compromised our marriage. Cups of coffee in hand, and a strawberry pie between us, we worked out reasons behind breakdown, and miscommunication. We found each other, and grace again. And somehow in that grace, that struggle dissolved for good.

It was on almost-weekly one hour drives through ocean fog and wide, seaside farms to Monterrey where I would process old shame and new fears of being a mother. How he would laugh and encourage me, and remind me who I am. It was hours winding through the almond orchards near Chico, when we would scratch our heads and open the doors of our hearts and ask ourselves what we could do if anything were possible. I was usually curled up in the passenger, sketchbook and watercolors balanced on my legs, and he was driving: talking, thinking, singing at the top of his lungs. There were breaks for babies, and nursing, and diapers, and stretching, of course.

It was in the old beater of a Toyota that we would come to the top of a ridge near Lake Tahoe, at sunset, of course. Where we would say, “God, YOU are our borders and our boundaries. Let us not be afraid or bound to anything else.” It was the all-night and all-the-next-day drive to Colorado, just because. We could have flown, but when else would we get to drive cross country and see the sun come up in Southern Utah? When else? I’m so glad we did.