Point of View

Following a large Penske moving truck through the mountains in central Arizona, I was startled by the bright orange, red and yellow glow beginning to move down a cactus-covered hill on my right.

The sunset brought tears when I realized it was, perhaps, a final end to a chapter in my life that brought me back to the land where nearly 25 years ago I began a similar journey east after introducing my new husband to my family.

It seemed fitting to say goodbye to my mother on Christmas Day, but this time I had to be satisfied giving a nod in the general direction of the cemetery as I followed a truck loaded with antiques and sentimental treasures from my mother’s home.

For three years my stepfather has waited patiently for each of my mother’s children to return to the family home. It’s been a difficult time for all four of us. My sister, who lives between Portland, Oregon, and Sandpoint, Idaho, lost her husband of 25 years just months after Mother passed away. My brothers each live a few states away as well. At first, no one knew for sure what we were supposed to do.

I was the first to return to my mother’s home to collect things, about two years ago. I shipped home some of my mother’s doll collection and the sewing machine she used to craft special items. I also sorted through rooms of collections, papers and photos. I sent my brothers and sister a box each of photos I thought they would want and took the rest home. I marked some items of furniture that I would like if no one else did.

Finally, a few months ago I realized it had been over three years since Mother died and no one else had been to the house. Since my stepfather had expressed an interest in getting on with his life by clearing out his expansive home and downsizing, my husband, John, and I just weeks ago began to plan what our newly married son now calls our “great adventure.”

And what an adventure it turned out to be.

We purchased tickets to fly into Phoenix Dec. 17, realizing it would be the very first time since they were born we would not see our children on Christmas Day. It helped to know my son planned to be in Atlanta with his wife’s relatives anyway. But still, I tried to steady my heart against the pangs I knew I would experience.

It appears the idea of being away from home for Christmas and dealing with the cleaning, sorting, packing, loading and driving were not enough. The week we left I became violently ill and barely made it through hosting our office Christmas party Dec. 16. Then while we were in Prescott at my mother’s house, I became very sick again and spent an afternoon in the doctor’s office being re-hydrated through an IV.

Remarkably, in the midst of all this, I began to sense a great irony and was excited about spending three or more days in a truck with my beloved. In 1980, newly married and both in the military, we had spent a week or so with my parents in Phoenix and then left to drive a green Suburu to St. Petersburg to spend Christmas Day with my new in-laws.

It was a trip to remember. Driving straight through for 20 or more hours, I recall we finally found a cheap motel outside of New Orleans. I brushed my teeth, using the water we kept in the trunk in case the car overheated. I remember spitting out the “oily” water and thinking I was going to die if I had to listen to my husband’s CB radio any longer. I learned a lot on that trip about just zoning out, not worrying about stopping—ever—and keeping my mouth shut.

You would have thought I would have remembered those lessons 25 years later.

Instead, I found myself barely able to sit in one position for more than 20 minutes, sorely in need of the fine, Egyptian cotton sheets at the nice hotels where we spent each night, and hardly able to withstand the sound of my own movie selection playing on the DVD player powered by the truck’s cigarette lighter.

Life is tough.

What I discovered was that 25 years after marrying the man, I am still very much in love with my husband. Not only did he do all of the driving this time, he made sure to stop at least every 6-8 hours to eat, he took care of pumping all of the gas—and he mapped and reserved ahead to make sure we had comfortable accommodations with a high speed internet connection at each stop.

He even stopped at Wal-Mart so I could buy a memory foam pillow, a fleece blanket and a couple of cases of water for the trip. We frequented Cracker Barrel restaurants and made time to stop in Texas for some good Mexican food.

Life is good.

Of course, I missed being home for Christmas. But I wouldn’t trade having spent the day going to church with my stepdad and watching him proudly handle all of the power-point presentation technical stuff. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss eating prime rib instead of turkey because I had been too sick and preoccupied to make reservations at the right place for Christmas dinner. And finally, I wouldn’t trade sitting at a Waffle House Christmas night in Tucson after dropping off our rental car and walking through an airport parking lot to jump into a yellow Penske truck to embark on our “great adventure.”

It was the corny juke box at Waffle House that got to me. I realized that with a little Christmas music, a positive attitude and my husband’s smiling face, I can and will make it through.

Twenty-five years ago my husband committed his life to Christ. Just days later we committed ourselves to Christ and to each other. We’ve had a lifetime of watching our wonderful children, Belinda and Jonathon, grow up. We’ve welcomed our daughter-in-law, Melissa, into our lives.

It’s been the best 25 years ever and I’m looking forward to another chapter of 25 years more.

Someone recently told me they just didn’t see their life turning out the way they had dreamed and planned. I was reminded that sometimes God’s plan can be much better.

Finally, two simple pieces of advice that helped me at the seven year point in our marriage continue to speak to me whenever I need to hear a word:

From Marti Hefley, my mentor, who took no pity on my sometimes frustration with John. “Just remember why you married him in the first place.”

And from Ted Manzke, my marriage and family professor in college: “Don’t ever issue an ultimatum you don’t intend to follow through with.”

Like the sunset, which many times goes unnoticed each day, my love for my husband continues. Some days its colors astound me. Other days I forget to notice—or he forgets to look. But God continues to bless.