Holy

When you are only home for a few days before you take off again, sometimes you let the kids invite whoever happens to be standing closest to join you all for lunch.

Crowd eighteen humans into a tiny living room and pile plates high with chips, and cookies, and the pulled pork sandwiches that someone's dad woke up early to make. 

And, sometimes it takes a far longer than it should to get from the youth room to the parking lot. But, sometimes you make up for it by piling kids into vehicles for the world's most cautious neighborhood half mile. Because, Bethel leaders are just a little protective of our kids.

Climb the giant retaining wall that is the backyard. Eat popsicles in the dining room. Pretend, for a moment, that school doesn't start this week.

Spend time. Talk about Haiti in between trips back to the kitchen to refill plates. Play on phones. Take a few pictures. Let the eighth grade boy lament how much harder it has gotten, in the last few weeks, to simply feel full. Because, it's summer time, and he is growing like a weed.

Taller, I am certain, than he was at camp, when we were first introducing these sixth graders to the wildly Grace filled mess that is this hodge-podge of a church family.

These kids who carry each other in their eyes and their hearts, who barely bother to learn names before pulling people into the circle. These ones who should be split by grade, by gender, but aren't. The seventh graders who boldly shape the world to their liking. The eighth graders who pounce each other with ecstatic hugs. Sixth graders who shrug their shoulders and go along for the ride. High schoolers who toe the line between leader and student.

Tonight, a few of them will cram into a DQ booth and tell me stories about the the Haiti trip.

Tonight, they'll shoo each other out of the church parking lot and carve out every last moment that they can before the last of the seniors leave for college. Tonight, they'll continue to navigate the temporary dramas that test and define their loyalties. Tonight, they'll be wildly human and wildly caught up in the Divine, and it will make all of our heads spin with the mess and beauty of it.

We'll spend our morning talking about Jesus with little ones, and our afternoon with noisy, hurting. courageous kids who fill up and hold space in an absolutely dizzying dance.

And, it will be good.

Because, this is Church and this is Family, and, whether we're playing "Headbands" with 1st graders or mixing up pitchers of cool aid in the kitchen, there is Holy in the midst of all of it.

Holy in the dishes being stacked into the dishwasher and the quiet lulls in conversation where kids catch each other's eyes or someone flops down close. Holy in freshmen who are still figuring out their place in this high school world and in college kids who are caught up in the new and the adventure.

Holy in our hurt and our confidence. Holy in hugs and hip bumps and giant bowls full of watermelon.

Holy in words and in silence.

Holy in little ones who talk a mile a minute and pull us along as we run through the grass. And, Holy in not-so-littles who have a hundred stories to tell, stories of second homes, of late nights and early mornings, of Joy and of Grace that carried them through.

And, it isn't a finish of anything. Isn't even a start. But, it is a middle. A thin place, where Eternity cracks through.

It is food and it is laughter, and it is sometimes looks that speak what we couldn't say in a thousand words.

It is Sunday, and we are ridiculous. And, it is good.

Road Trip

When you have a month of, largely, uncommitted time during the summer for the first time since you were old enough to drive, you rent a minivan and spend that month fan girling over rocks.

And, when your siblings find themselves with a similar, "in between houses," sort of a freedom, you make plans to pick up the whole crew, because your parents raised the sort of family that would rather pay for a little bit of gas (and pee in a lot of bushes) than pay a whole lot more in temporary rent.

From Washington through San Fransisco, I am on my own, winding along the coast and through redwoods, along with a loose collection of sprinter vans and RVs. We leapfrog one another at countless viewpoints and the occasional excellent nap spot, dot the side of the 1 and the 101 as we pull over for the night, and clamber over the same railings, eighteen years old or eighty, when the world is just too beautiful not to take a picture.

Hijabi college students and families full of gangly teenagers crawl over the same log jams and wade up the same emerald green canyons, and, when the trail is unmarked and winding, you simply ask questions of whomever happens to be coming the other way.

Glass beaches and ancient trees that have lived so long I am halfway certain that they can talk. And, eventually, San Francisco and the first of my sisters.

We wind our way through Yosemite, taking a few days to figure out how to best avoid the Disneyland style crowds, finding the best views of giant rocks, chasing sunsets, and leaving our stuff unwatched for longer than is probably wise when we decide that star gazing is more important than sleeping bags.

Eat spring rolls in the tent in Big Sur, and make all of the obligatory sound effects in the Death Valley canyons where parts of "A New Hope" were filmed. And, perhaps, lock ourselves out of the car at Dante's Viewpoint.

Because, this is #vanlife in reality, with all of the hand washing of laundry and constant hunt for toilets and drinking water that goes with it. And, if you are going to be stuck for a few hours, the prettiest viewpoint in Death Valley isn't a shabby place to watch the sun set.

We spend a day living in hammocks on Big Bear Lake and enjoying the fact that the only thing here interested in eating, biting, or stinging us or our food is the tiny chipmunk sniffing for leftovers. Head closer in to LA for a relative's house, take the second "real" showers since the Tri-Cities, and get ready for the other three to join us.

Laundry, a little grocery shopping, and cleaning the van of its accumulated layers of sweat and stink -- on the inside, at least.

Once we have them, it's a race to fit as much exploring into as few calendar days as we possibly can, jumping back into the National Parks loop and the constant stream of foreign languages that goes with it.

Joshua Tree, with its bizarre rock piles that are half movie set and half giant playground. Zion's brilliant red rocks and spectacular views from the top of Angel's landing. A campsite on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon and a hike just down to the Kaibab Tunnel that has us jogging on the way down and huffing and puffing our way back up in order to beat the rain and the sunset.

Bryce's crazy hoodoos and gentle hikes simply for the sake of hiking somewhere that isn't instagram famous. Capitol Reef, because, who knew there was a national park with free apples, and gorgeous slot canyons, and rainbow colored rocks?

And, because, our previous two attempts at slot canyons had led to pushing another family's minivan out of the sand and full on swimming through Zebra, so we needed another shot at twisting rock and crazy golden light. 

(Definitely do swim through a flooded slot canyon if you ever get the chance. Not everything has to be instagram pretty to be a good adventure.)

Goblin Valley for showers and sketchy hammock situations and a pint sized, Mario Cart style playground that still managed to keep us busy for a few hours climbing around on hardened mud blobs that were older than much of human history.

Arches, with it's honey combed trails and confidence that you will find your way in the right direction along these massive slabs of rock.

The Bonneville Salt Flats and a slightly frantic hunt for eclipse glasses when we realize that we are a few hours drive from totality.

The Grand Tetons for not nearly long enough, as our collective desire to not do anything outweighs the desire to cram in another couple of hikes. We are tired, and the lakes are gorgeous, and simply sitting by as many of them as possible becomes the objective for the day.

Because, if we can sit on warm rocks by cool water, while fan girling over massive chunks of stone that are jutting straight into the sky...we are pretty happy.

An eclipse and Yellowstone and a car wash that only begins to touch the caked on mud that covers the rental, and we are home.

Uncounted miles, plenty of Hamilton, and more talking about rocks and landscapes than we might have thought was possible. Van life is waking up to breakfast on the coast and falling asleep to brilliant stars. And, van life is five adults sleeping in a mini van when the weather conspires against us.

It is occasionally sleeping in Walmart parking lots, and often regretting our decision to leave the dishes until the next morning. It is a whole lot of mornings of bad instant coffee, and loosing all sense of where is a normal spot to pull out the camp stove.

Van life is a storm that breaks our tent poles and reinforcing them with sticks until we give in and buy a new one. It is free campsites and incredible views and beings absurdly grateful for phones that carry maps of everything that we could possibly need.

It is falling into patterns of setting up and breaking down camp and of silly things, like buying ice and filling water jugs and how far they are willing to drive for good coffee. When you start to make a habit of finishing the day with a "quick" four to five mile hike, and when anything past sunset begins to feel like the middle of the night.

Because, when MacFarlans say that we are going to road trip, we actually mean that we are going to spend a month camping on BLM land and national forests, hiking until we wear holes in our socks, and climbing up onto everything that gravity and our own coordination will allow.

Because, why wouldn't we?

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