Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

traveling with kids

The two ways people react to our upcoming holiday plans

It all started with a death in the family. And a secret prayer to be able to spend more time with my extended relatives.

Sometime around Thanksgiving every year, my husband and I sit down and think about our travel plans for Christmas. He works in a restaurant with limited time off and the rest of our family lives 800 miles away, so going home for Christmas is never a simple matter. As it was shaping up this year, we were going to get about five days in Illinois with our families. Enough time to drive for a whole day, celebrate some Christmases and drive for another whole day.

I’ve been missing my family, thus the secret prayer to find a way to spend more time with them. The kids have a long school break and my husband was the only one who needed to be back at a certain time. (It was a secret prayer because I don’t like sounding disappointed by our circumstances. After all, I married him with full knowledge that one day we would live in Pennsylvania. I just didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to be so far away from everyone else.)

Then my uncle, who lives in Colorado, died, and we started asking different questions.

Are we going to Colorado?

Who is going to Colorado?

When are we going to Colorado?

How are we getting there?

My uncle was the sort of person who didn’t want people to make a fuss, so he wanted no funeral service, only to be cremated and have his ashes scattered in the mountains (an impossibility in the winter months).

But the rest of us need closure and to be together, so the planning began. During the holiday break, when several family members have time off because they work for school districts, a trip to Colorado would happen.

The catch? Several of those family members do not like to fly, so this would be a road trip.

Unwilling to subject ourselves to a possible 16-hour drive with a day off followed by another possible 16-hour drive (did you know Denver is 1,500 miles from where we live in Pennsylvania?!?), my husband suggested something crazy. (At least it sounded crazy to me.)

“Why don’t we fly home?”

We have lived in Pennsylvania for more than six years and have never flown back to Illinois. Mainly because it’s expensive and not perfectly convenient. Since there are four of us, we still need a vehicle in Illinois, so loading up the van and driving for a day or overnight has always been the preferred option.

Until now.

After my initial shock and near-refusal, the idea grew on me. We would arrive in Illinois considerably fresher and certainly earlier than if we drove, and because we would only be in our hometown area for a few days, not having our own vehicle isn’t too much of an issue.

So plans came together. We booked tickets. We arranged flights and school and work schedules.

And that is only part of the adventure.

Forrest Cavale | Creative Commons | via unsplash

Forrest Cavale | Creative Commons | via unsplash

The second leg of our Christmas vacation involves four generations of family in an RV driving across the Midwest Plains to Denver for a long weekend of grieving, celebrating and being together. It also involves one of our particular foursome flying back to Pennsylvania from Denver so he can return to work and the rest of us spending a few extra days in Illinois with a yet-to-be-determined rendezvous somewhere between Illinois and Pennsylvania.

If you’re still with me, you’re probably thinking one of two things. I know this, not because I’m a mind reader, but because every person I’ve told this plan to has had one of these two reactions and nothing in-between.

One reaction is: “That’s awesome! You guys are going to have so much fun! What an adventure! I’ve always wanted to do that!”

The other is: “Wow. That sounds … interesting. I’ll pray for you.”

Honestly, I waver between both of those feelings–excitement and terror. Because, let’s face it, this could be the most awesome thing to ever happen to our family or it could be a total disaster. (In reality, it will probably have moments of both). Either way, this will be one of our most memorable holidays ever.

And that’s worth something.

So, I can’t promise you a bunch of blog posts from the road because I’m not exactly sure what all we’re taking with us. But, if you’re interested in following along the adventure on Facebook, Twitter and/or Instagram, I’m going to use the hashtag #XCountryXmas for all travel related posts. (You can find me on Goodreads to see all the books I read while we travel, too.) I will be writing down memorable quotes, journaling my thoughts and taking pictures along the way, hoping to bring you a share of our memories in the new year.

And just to give you a teaser, here’s the first memorable quote for the trip to come.

Me: Izzy, I e-mailed you teacher today and she said to have a good trip and that you were excited.

Izzy (the first-grader): Yeah, and I might even see the Platte River.

Me: How do you know about the Platte River?

Izzy: My teacher told me. It’s in Nebraska. I can’t wait to go through Nebraska.

Me: I think you’re going to be disappointed. (No offense to Nebraska.)

To epic road trips and beyond! (And Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and all that jazz!)

Why my kids will never leave me

She squeezes my neck and wraps her legs around my middle.

“I’m going to give you the biggest hug ever,” she says.

The world around us drifts away as all my senses narrow in on this one moment.

“Promise to miss me?” I whisper as I look into her eyes, the tears already pooling in mine.

“I promise.”

She jumps into the car that will take her away for two weeks and waves “bye.” I circle the car to redeem a promised hug from my son and he doesn’t stop talking until I almost squeeze him too hard.

More hugs. More waves. A tearful good-bye in the parking lot of a Ruby Tuesday in Somewhere, Indiana and then they’re off and we’re off and I’m sloppy crying all over the dash of our now quiet, half-empty van.

kids with nana and papa

They were happy and safe, our kids, in the capable hands of their grandparents, and this was not the first time we’d sent them away.

Two weeks without them was cause for both celebration and sorrow.

The tears were a bit of both.

—

She hands the baby and pack of wipes to her husband, who takes both and the hand of their young son and wanders to the video game area while she retreats back to the bathroom.

A move I well remember.

She lingers at the mirror as she washes her hands, checking her reflection, and I can almost hear her thoughts. Maybe this is her first chance to pause all day.

We have done this, traveled with babies, and I remember the exhaustion of changing diapers then taking my break or tag-teaming at the rest stop. I remember desperately and silently pleading that they would sleep for just one hour so we could have a noise break in the car.

The memories pushed forward through time until they were almost happening live as I watched this young family.

My kids were in another car in another state.

But for a moment, I forgot they weren’t with me.

—

My kids will never leave me.

Years ago I would have protested that statement, wanting nothing more than relief from the demands of parenting little ones.

Someday, I thought, they’ll be gone and we’ll have our days to ourselves again.

I believed that because we’ve been parents most of our married years, there would come a day when we would gain a measure of freedom. Parenting is exhausting and the thought that it might NEVER END filled me with dread.

Someday, they’ll leave. It became the mantra that would get me through the toughest days.

I lived for “someday.”

But the truth I’m discovering is both better and worse.

They will never leave because they are imprinted on our lives.

My heart bears their handprints; my soul their footprints and I cannot look at the world around me without thinking of them.

We pass construction equipment and I turn to tell my son, only to remember he’s not there. A train winds through the mountains and I point, ready to announce it before remembering the back seats sit empty.

Even in the silence, my husband and I recite the funny things our kids have said. I hear our daughter’s made-up songs in my head.

Because these two little humans have changed us forever and whether we know them for another day, another decade or nearly a lifetime, we are permanently marked.

I know now why women with grown children still tell the stories of their kids’ childhoods, why the growing up seasons are hard to accept.

I want my kids to grow up, to mature appropriately and become who God intends.

But wanting that does not mean I want to forget or erase the memories.

I want to remember.

—

I wake to a quiet house, well past my normal time to get up.

Husband at work, kids on vacation, and the house is mine for the day.

In half-awake, half-slumber, I’m sure I hear the kids rustling around in their room, certain their giggles fill the hallway as they greet the day.

But no, I remind myself, they’re not here right now.

It’s only the memories.

The house is quiet and empty of people but it’s full of memories.

And I’m beginning to think the best kind of life is the one that remembers.