Mora to Moab -- Where We See Some Stuff

It was another long drive.  Skip and I shared driving time and between the scenery, the conversation and the music it went by fast.  We started out on the wrong road due to the faulty memory of the old man driving, but we got back on track and drove through some familiar stomping grounds.
 

We drove through a little town named Mora.  Marty put together a mission trip for our youth group at First Presbyterian in Waco to repaint a church there.  All the kids and sponsors stayed at the house in Pendaries and we drove over every day to paint.  I could not find that church as we drove through, faulty memory you know. 

We did find Sipapu on our way.  Sipapu is a small, family owned ski resort where we skied with the kids and friends.  It was great place to get better at skiing because there were no lines.  There wasn’t much variety in the slopes, but you could focus on the skiing and the green chili cheeseburger was great.
 

This is where Andrew Patrick had one of the greatest wipe outs I’ve ever seen.  He tried a long jump, at great speed,, and didn’t make it.  It was one of the only times I saw his older brother express concern over Andrew.  It was a hell of a crash and as some old hippie dude passed over on ski lift above the crash site he says, “Wow dude, big yard sale” as Andrews skies, poles and gloves were scattered across the slope.  BTW…. he survived to do other insane shit.
 

We went from sort of the mid-west part of New Mexico to the mid-east part of Utah.  Along the way we saw antelopes, mountain magpies, some elk, some deer, we crossed the Rio Grande at least three times and saw no walls or moats with gaters. 
 

We ran into two or three construction work areas that required waiting in line because they had only one lane open.  While there we watched as some real-life working cowboys drove about 30 black angus across the road.  
 

We saw the reds, tans, browns, yellows and greens of the mountains as the leaves are slowly changing.  The aspen leaves are turning green to yellow and they light up the high canyons and mountains.
 

We sheltered in Pagosa Springs Colorado, made famous in CW McCall’s song, “Wolf Creek Pass” …..you know the one, if you don’t, go listen because that trucker ended up with a load of chickens in downtown Pagosa Springs.  Our motel was located to the first marijuana dispensary I’ve ever seen.  Colorado has it going on.
 

The motel we were in felt a bit like living in a dorm.  You could hear people walking down the hall and hear the motorcycles outside.  They had a special washing station for the bikes, and the owner of the motel had two huge bull dogs that hung out in the lobby.  It was kind of laid back, but they made me sign a promise not to smoke in the building, ever.
 

We headed out to Moab early that morning with the thought we would get there in time to check in to our motel and then go out to Canyon Land.  We did make it in perfect time and found Moab to be a cool little town with old and young alike walking around in hiking boots and attire.
 

As it turns out this part of the trip is where I got to restore part of my soul, it was where I felt the sun and wind in my face and the sound of nothing but the wind moving around me.  We got to Canyon Land and toward the evening I found myself sitting on a rock as old as time looking out at an expanse of red and green canyons, carved by ancient waters, pressures and dust. 
 

You simply can’t look at this place and not feel a couple of things, insignificant and knowing that some Hand touched something long ago and painted a masterpiece.  It was like Vincent Van Gogh took millions of years to paint Starry Starry Night.  I was sitting at peace, breathing the air, soaking in the colors, completely immersed in the simple natural beauty of the reality before me.
 

As dumb and weird as it may sound, which saying dumb and weird stuff is kind of my deal, it was right there, right then I figured it out.  Marty’s not gone, she simply found, as she told me, “another way of being.”
 

A friend asked me the other day if I ever feel Marty’s presence.  Yes, the images I have, the memories I have are baked in and will never go away.  They will change, but her presence in my life is ingrained in my cells.  But, while I sat there with me, God, God’s eons of work before me and no one else within ear shot, Marty, or at least pieces of her were there and I felt, in my little pea brain, just a little more at peace than I have been in a long time. 
 

It was a release, not so much a burden, but a tension, an anxiety, a worry, a burden, okay we can use that word but it’s not a very good one here, it was never a bad burden.
 

Tomorrow we tackle Delicate Arch.

Gracefully Skiing

Forty years ago Marty and I went skiing in Breckenridge Colorado for our honeymoon.  I had never skied before so you might think that wasn’t the best thing to do on a honeymoon….pish posh.   Marty was a good skier and did end up teaching me a thing or two.  Actually, she ended up having to dig me and my skies out of a four foot snow drift mid way down the beginner slope.  

Forty years later, last week, I went skiing in Deer Valley Utah with our two kids, their spouses and the oldest three grandkids.  I can still ski, I’m better than I was 40 years ago but I'm older, fatter and slower.  I still remember getting rescued from the snow drift so I try really hard to avoid big piles of soft snow because of that lesson.

I’m a bit of a sentimentalist (duh).   I carry a small blue canvas case Marty always had with her when we skied.  Marty always had it tucked into the inside pocket of her ski coat and it always carried gum, chap stick, a lighter and a pack of Doral Menthols.  It’s old, dirty and torn so much that it is no longer functional, but I carry it anyway.  I stick it in my inside jacket pocket, with nothing in it because of the holes, but it’s there and it reminds me of Marty when I am on the mountain.

 

When we ski, when I watch our kid’s ski, I think of Marty, I think of ski trips with friends, with family, but always with Marty.  She brought skiing into my life.  She brought that graceful feeling of gliding along soft snow into my life.  

More importantly, she brought a real feeling of grace into my life and I’m never more aware of that than when I am in the mountains.  I never feel more connected to my faith, my God’s grace than when I’m standing at the top of the world with a brilliant blue sky above and soft white snow below.

Every time I ski I find myself at the top of the mountain looking down remembering going down the slopes in front of Marty as she expertly glided behind me.  I can’t, I don’t want to get away from those very familiar feelings of her laughing at me as we skied and as I fell into piles of snow, over edges into mud or down a steep slope upside down.

As I watched our children ski I was struck, first by Erin, the daughter and then Matt, the son, how much they skied like their mother.  Matt skies fast, Erin skies slow, both ski with the same pace and control of their mother, both ski with their arms and poles out from their body, both ski from an upright position.  They ski like their mother and I absolutely love that.

On the last night at the resort as we sat eating a dinner cobbled together by my resourceful daughter in law Sarah we all got to talking about things we enjoyed on the trip and what we were grateful for, something my children often ask of their children.  We went around the table several times and we were grateful for skiing together, spending time together, our feet, our food, pizza and family.

I took one turn and looked at the three kids four, four and six. I told them I was grateful to their Grandmother’s mother and father who took their Grandmother skiing and taught her how to ski, to find grace on the mountain.  I told them I was grateful for their Grandmother who taught me to ski and find that same grace and how we taught Matt and Erin and how they were teaching them how to ski and enjoy God’s grace.

 

I don’t think, actually I know they didn’t get what I was talking about or how this act of recreation connected our current family to our families history.  They don’t really get it that their Grandma, the one in the chair, is the one who kept this whole thing going.  

They don’t get it yet.  

It’s a skiing lesson I will continue to try and teach until someday they get it, until some day they stand at the top of the mountain and watch their parents ski or watch their own children ski.  I will continue to ski and teach them about the grace of skiing and finding God’s grace in the beauty and magnificence of creation.

It’s what Marty taught me.

Respite

Last week I found myself in Utah with my son, his wife and my four year old grandson.  We went skiing with all of the glitterati at the Sundance Film Festival (I saw no on I recognized).  It was my grandson’s maiden ski voyage and it was a hoot watching him learn to snow plow and watching his parents cope with a four year old and all of his ski stuff.

I wish Marty could have been there.  She would have loved it.  Skiing was the only athletic pursuit she enjoyed.   I think mostly she loved it because there was very little perspiration and she could stop and smoke and watch the dare devils sail by.

Marty taught me how to ski 38 years ago this month, on our honeymoon to Breckenridge Colorado.  I can still ski as a result of those lessons and I’m still pretty good, I’m just not good for very long.  But, as I told my daughter-in-law, “If I could lose 40 pounds I would be magnificent”, I don’t see magnificent in my near skiing future.

A trip like this requires planning and preparation to leave Marty with our caregivers under the watchful eye of my parents and daughter Erin.  I am a lucky guy to have parents who are able and willing to come care for their daughter-in – law.  Marty and I are proud to have a daughter who will give up her time to do the same.  It’s not a small contribution to my sanity.

I end up taking these breaks a couple of times a year and I think they are beneficial to me and to Marty.  I get out and about and Marty gets out from under my micro managing.  

To make it happen I arrange for my wonderful family to come and keep Marty company.  She has not been without a family member with her for more than 24 hours in eight years.  She likes that and hates it at the same time.  

I also make sure all of my other wives (caregivers) are cool with me being gone for a few days, get Marty’s medicines lined out, cook a couple of meal, leave some cash, leave instructions and talk my narcissistic self into believing Marty can be okay without me.  

The trip went well and Marty thrived in my absence.  We skied enough to be exhausted, the four year old learned how to turn and sort of control his speed and no one broke, sprained or strained anything important.

Marty did great without me, of course.  One of her favorite thing is for friends and family to come and just talk to her, just talk.  You don’t ask questions, you don’t probe for her thoughts, you just talk.  You tell her about you, your life, your gossip, whatever, it doesn’t matter, you just talk and Marty listens, occasionally adding her own comments, but mostly she listens and enjoys the different voice, the different sound, the different smells, the different everything.  Being chronically ill is a boring drag and anything that is different, except the hospital, is a good thing.

In the end, Marty got some time away from Marty’s Husband, which is okay for a lot of different reasons.  She got some quality time with daughter Erin, granddaughter Lily Jewel and she got to listen to my mother tell her stories and that may be the best thing that happened when I left because when  Bettye Lou comes Betty Lou comes loaded with lots and lots of stories.…..and Marty loves that.  

Me, I got to stand at the top of the world and look down.  I got to stand there on a cold day under crystal clear blue skies and watch my son and his wife glide through perfect white snow down a run called Blue Bell.  I got to ski down Success and experience graceful as I thought about Marty and how she had been my teacher 38 years ago.  I got to ski down the bunny slope with my 4 year old grandson and watch his face light up the first time he figured out how to make a good turn.  I got to remember watching my own son, his father, do the same.  

We are connected to our past, our past informs our present..  Epiphanic moments.