In the Shadow of Death Valley

   Does my soul reflect a desert, or does the desert reflect my soul? Am I parched and thirsty, or does life spring from crags and crevices within? If we are made of dust and ash, is not the desert our kin? The place my soul, thus knows how to roam?

   The desert is a margin place, a thin place. It tests patience. The desert tests perseverance. It is forever saying, "give me more." It will take all you have and then some. Yet, in the tiniest of crags and crevices life springs upward. In a parched and barren place, life springs eternal.

   Tempted, Jesus faced down his enemy in a barren desert. Indeed, both the enemy and the desert, were created of His accord and will. Deserts force us to bloom and blossom, yield and spread, or whither and die. Surely, the desert fathers and mothers knew there was life to be found on dry parched plains. We are not nearly so astute, nor monastic, but we do wander and wonder: What are we? What's out there? What might we encounter out of our comfort zone? When and where am I most rightly related to self, others, and God? 

   As is so often the case, I don't find the questions, or seek the answers, until I'm home and the adventure is asking questions of me. Surely, we ask questions while preparing for adventures, but it's not until adventures ask questions of us, that we often engage fully with a time, place, or space. 

   Oregon spring break, found us wandering to Death Valley. Indeed, we'd prepared and the goal was a good time with friends, amazing geology, and getting home safe. Of course, a Land Rover trip, by nature, no matter where you go, is always a chance to ask, "What are we made of?" Survival kits are always packed. However we, or at least me, hope to never really need them. Besides, you can't use a Life Straw, if there's no water to be found!

   While we were looking forward to Death Valley National Park, the week previous to our departure, I kept hearing Him say, “I go with you into the valley of the shadow of death.” Ah hem? Excuse me? Could you repeat that? He did, several times. It's hard to feel peace when those words are what you hear in your ear. Words like those, one simply embraces, holds close, and prays about. A lot. I might add that the examen was an important soul process to begin in March. 

   Thus, after a week of preparations, the morning of departure arrived. We awoke to a child with a 99.5 fever – not through the roof, but nothing to ignore either. I sent her back to bed, and we muddled about what to do. We cancelled our tickets to Scotty's Castle for the next day, a 16 hour drive away. Did I mention our time line was tight? To stay or go? To  commit or quit? A question, a dilemma, we all face every day. Yet, she awoke 3 hours later with no temperature. We loaded the cooler and pulled out of town because sometimes it's now or never.

   And really, there's never a good time to drive 16 hours (one way) and take an 8 day Land Rover trip. I've given up thinking that day will arrive - the day when it feels that all of life has meshed to make the slated rover trip possible. It is, and always will be, hard work to get out of dodge. We'll always be dodging something else in order to go, but relationships and riveting views also await and call. Thus we embrace life, get in the Rover, and go. 

   We headed east through Bend and Burns, before cutting south through the Malheur Wildlife Refuge, into Frenchglen, and then on to Fields, Oregon. We kept rolling, right into the dark, that first day. Miles and miles of empty dark pavement rolled past and under us while the sky overhead darkened, and then relit with stars. We pulled into Winnemucca, Nevada about 9:30 p.m. and laid down weary heads at a local motel. Clean, safe, local, drive to your door service. My kind of motel.

   Thankful: no more fevers.

   In the morning, we re-embarked upon open Nevada road, pulling through Lovelock where I roamed during the summer and winter breaks of my youth. So much mischief, many years ago. Then it was on to Fallon and Tonopah, and into vast stretches of open parched plain. We drove through lands of drought and often doubt. Miles of weapons depot and storage = heavy hearts and much discussion. Where do we invest as a nation, as a people? In Hawthorne, Nevada, the world's largest storage depot for weapons, bombs become flowers, because even there, we desire to turn what is broken into beautiful.

   We made it home in one piece, each of us - no small miracle.

   Near the north entrance to Death Valley, we prepare to turn left onto Scotty's Castle Road. There is a near miss with a semi-truck. I don't even like to think about it, much less write it. It still terrifies me, but for the grace of God. Did the trucker not see my turn signal? I gave him ample warning. (We would later find out, that it was possible the turn signal ground was no longer functioning.) 

   There but for the grace of God, 80,000 pounds of metal would have borne down upon us. 

    There but for the grace of God, when that semi-truck came barrelling down upon us, there might have been a car in the opposing lane of traffic, leaving him no where to go as he sought to avoid us, leaving no room for nothing good, a mess of metal and ashes on a hot highway.

   The grace of God, meant I saw him bearing down on us in the rear view mirror and decided not to make my left turn, but just try and keep going straight and hope he did not take us out from the rear. 

   The grace of God, enabled him to pass us at nearly 70 mph in the opposing lane of traffic, while I was probably going 20mph. He managed to avoid hitting us from behind, and I'm sure he was terrified when he realized we intended to make a left turn and were nearly stopped on the highway.

   The grace of God: We made it to Scotty's Castle and Mesquite Springs Campground. God must have more adventures for us, ones that don't include streets of gold right now, but rather dust lined byways.

Each of us, miracles.

   Then grace blushed the hills around us, and flushed them with life. There were mountain goats with graceful curved horns, coyotes romping on golf course lawns, endangered pup fish, magpies, bucked antelope, and doves. Grace kept the rattlers and scorpions away, either that, or the very noisy kids. They come in handy, they do.

   The pale blush of light also fell on the faces of gracious women who paved our path south with their prayers. They craft and carve meaningful moments into our lives, in my life, giving me lovely thoughts and words to chew upon, and even goodies for our sweet tooth. Indeed, notes, prayers, care packages, and goods arrived for the road, and followed us south.

   In Death Valley, I stumbled into a girl from childhood, now woman, sunning with her kids. She was kind then; she's still kind today.

   At a Death Valley dish washing sink, I ran into a home school mom from the past. Thick with suds, we shared God's provisions, and miracles of health and healing in 2014. We talked about how God met us in so many desert places. Their family had a diagnosis of blind for a teenage child. It came out of the blue, and threatened to turn all life black. We had a diagnosis of severe, chronic, and acute colitis, for life, for one child. Today, neither child is facing the diagnosis spoken over them, and both walk a path towards healing. Both kids were led by grace to doctors, in the midst of trial, to healing trials and trails of healing. We rejoiced, and watered the desert with a few tears of grace, all while washing dirty camp dishes.

   There is life in our deserts. There is life when it's blistering hot, and the air seems sucked out of your lungs, and all seems lost. When the very joy of life is sucked out of you, and your soul is parched beyond measure, and you are so thirsty you want the heat consume you, there is life. Yes, even there.

   And then there's our rover trail mates. Both are amazing. She's ever encouraging, listening, engaging, funny, and reliable. She's a gem. So very grateful for them and their friendship, mechanical wisdom, hilarity, and thoughtfulness.

   Death Valley is copper colored canyons, and canyons of pastel. Death Valley is the driest, lowest, and hottest. There were twists and turns and the threat of an engine that wouldn't ignite, but did, every time. Potential engine “mines” met mines made by men, and God got us back to camp and a cool swimming pool each night. 

   There was a resort staffer who turned Furnace Creek Resort upside down to find a pair of goggles for my kid to borrow. Because kids today must have goggles to swim - they know no other way. God bless that woman's soul. He leads me beside quiet waters. 

   And if I cough all night in the dry windy dusty desert, and listen to her cough all night, and we keep our motorhome neighbors awake, with their windows wide open, yes, even then, He restores my soul.

   We leave Death Valley, and on our way out, we collect national park patches in the shape of thermometers and Jr. Ranger badges, and are grateful to be on the road. Our last stop at Mosaic Canyon, the engine sputters, but comes to life.  

   Please let there be no broken in this beautiful canyon.

   We drive up and out on windy dry roads through the Pantamints, and then they are to our east and the Sierra Nevada range graces our west. Yet, the dry follows us all the way to Oregon.

   I can't get over the drought. Spring, eighty degrees in CA, fields barely green with grass, and yet no bud break, no leaves, on so many trees. California is dry like a bone. I saw one farm sprinkler running in agricultural valleys covering over 600 miles. Reservoirs, lakes, and irrigation channels dry. Driving by the Sierra Nevada's, we ponder the Donner party, and hope that one day there will be no "dry" Donner party.

   In Independence, CA, we arrive at no independence: Manzanar. I knew the Land Rover might not start again, but I also knew we had to see Manzanar. It was now or never. It would never again be easier to come to this place. It was completely necessary we see, discuss, and attempt to learn the lessons of such desolation, isolation, and deluded thinking.

   I will think about Manzanar for a long time, as well as Tule Lake, which we also passed on our drive home. Let us learn from our deserts.

   Pushing towards home, we made it to Carson City and still coughed our way through the night. Disappointed, we cancelled time with family in Reno due to continued sickness and Land Rover mechanical worries. 

   We shared America's Best Hotel with a former lawyer and law professor, now a permanent resident of the hotel. He smiled a toothless smile, and warmly told us his story. He also told us of the Siberian Husky who'd died at the hotel during the night in his owner's arms. We sympathized awkwardly, faced with this story of loss, and in the valley of the shadow of death, we bid adieu. Like travellers in the night, we slipped past, wanting to leave the sadness behind, find our way home, and choose life, not death. The valley of the shadow of death is everywhere; but I fear no evil, for thou art with me.

    The drizzle began around Eugene. The fields were thick with calf high grass, as new calves lolled about. The clouds layered themselves, and a single vertical shaft of brilliant rainbow placed itself upon the grassy slopes of a far off hill. Welcome home. Have hope. And we did, those of us who saw the rainbow anyway. One child was busy having a reading marathon, while the other, had finally fallen asleep holding onto the dish washing bucket, fearful of being road sick.

   Home, he diagnoses a sick Land Rover, and with 272,000 miles on her, she's allowed a few hiccups. I might even trust her to a road trip again. We book hair cuts and eye appointments. We plan Easter and birthday moments. We deal with swimmers ear, and begin taking Bragg's vinegar, some of us, in attempt to finally kick the cough. We bake cookies. We unpack, and unpack more. The laundry consumes, but oh the loads of wet moisture, and hot showers. We are thankful for the woman who left food for our return home, and emailed of hilltop adventures while we were away.

   The maples have burst and the cherries too. The bees hum and hive. We lay our heads down to sleep and pull out the examen. We sleep with bread and ask, “what was the most desolate moment of your day and the moment of most consolation?” We ask, “What are we embracing, and what are we learning?” We don't have the answers yet, but we seek to listen and learn what parched valleys may teach us, in order to find the hidden springs, all in the valley of the shadow of life. 

   And I know that I owe the hummingbird food. He zings by me on the porch. He's telling me something, and I need to listen. He, like me, needs sweet nectar to live upon.

Psalm 23 (MSG)

 God, my shepherd!
    I don’t need a thing.
You have bedded me down in lush meadows,
    you find me quiet pools to drink from.
True to your word,
    you let me catch my breath
    and send me in the right direction.

Even when the way goes through
    Death Valley,
I’m not afraid
    when you walk at my side.
Your trusty shepherd’s crook
    makes me feel secure.

You serve me a six-course dinner
    right in front of my enemies.
You revive my drooping head;
    my cup brims with blessing.

Your beauty and love chase after me
    every day of my life.
I’m back home in the house of God
    for the rest of my life.