The Not-so Weary Road to Nashville

Even before I left Michigan my father asked me to keep the coming Thanksgiving in mind. My paternal grandparents would be holding a reunion dinner in Florida and if I could make it, three full generations of the family would be in attendance. I couldn’t commit myself to be there when I first took to the highways for I knew not where the Lord might lead. But three weeks into October I felt the great magnet telling me to make ready the journey to Tampa.

One of my uncles, Victor would be making his way south from Indiana. If I could meet him in Tennessee on the 16th, he would shuttle me the rest of the way. The plan was to leave Joplin on Saturday, November 10th and start hitching toward Nashville. God was apparently not fond of my plan.

I had been trying to tie up so many loose ends the Friday before that I hadn’t found time to pack my bag. So when I awoke Saturday I immediately started assembling my travel rig.

I had done a dry run earlier in the week; putting together most of what I intended to take with me to see how the burden would wear. But when I went to assemble it on the day of departure it just wouldn’t come together. Nomatter what I did, time after time I would be left with a pile of clothes that just wouldn’t fit anywhere, or a backpack that refused to seal shut.

I struggled with it for hours all Saturday morning to no avail. I had probably packed and repacked the thing three or four times before Randy Riggs approached me. “You want to go for a walk?”

Oh hell. Even as I had been packing it was turning over in my mind that I couldn’t let myself get upset that my schedule was being thrown out of whack. The book of James tells us all about making plans without taking God into consideration; and though I had set myself to leave on Saturday morning I would not spite the master with my own intent. If He had made other arrangements on my behalf, I would conform.

Now, in the teachings of Jesus we are told that if any man asks us to walk with him a mile, we should walk with him two. When Randy asked me to go-a-walking I knew I could not rightly deny him. It was a godly request and I had faith that the Lord was reordering my departure plans to match His, more perfect, schedule.

By the time I returned from my goodbye outing with Randy an hour and a half had passed. I sat on the dock smoking a cigarette, trying to get my wits about me: If I was going to make that backpack come together I simply could not take all the things I had planned on bringing with me to Nashville. But what should I get rid of?

I consolidated my load again, tossing out a scrap or two of clothing and dismissing my sneakers: I would have to make do with the insulated boots I had pulled out of the Refuge donations. Another half hour struggling with it, and my pack just barely closed… I was still wholly unsatisfied. I needed a travel rig that I could get in and out of expediently and this wasn’t it.

It took me one more cigarette to finally get godly about the affair. I realized again what I understood first when I gave up my work-a-day existence and all my precious knickknacks in favor of this, my holy calling: That so long as I walk with God, he will provide. Whatever I need and do not have will be given; and if I am found lacking any thing, He will deliver it.

I went back to my pack, ripping it apart and adding to my pile of abandoned goods and sundries until the mess of hand-me-downs stood a full three feet tall. Oh, the backpack closed up now! Let there be no doubt. As soon as I returned to the teachings of Christ, the uphill battle shifted in my favor, becoming a downward assault.

But it was swiftly approaching dinner time at the Refuge. Should I stay for dinner or make for the hills? As I asked myself this very question, Dani, a woman whose zealotry and passion for Christ has led me to dub her ‘church deaconess,’ approached in a fluster.

Dani had been working on starting up a small, sort-of news circular concerning the Refuge, and she was having trouble getting it to print out appropriately. As the resident on-site computer tech, she came to me for assistance. An hour and a half later I had fought valiantly the demon laser printer and achieved, at least, a partial victory; having printed the circular using a lesser quality, but still acceptable, method. (.jpg in place of .pdf)

It was now 5:30p and I had missed dinner service. I came upstairs and ate the plate of food the staff had set aside for me. By the time I finished eating it was nigh on six o’clock; and thanks to daylight savings time the sun had completely set. I would not be leaving until Sunday. I had lost a full day’s travel time. Could the Lord still get me to Nashville on schedule? (…he asked, knowing full-well the answer.)

-

I awoke Sunday and dawned my golden armor: A green-canvas military backpack with aluminum, back-supporting frame; Within it: a bundle of clothing and my smaller, yellow and black, walk-about backpack. Over shoulder: An Ibanez Talman acoustic guitar concealed in black vinyl soft-case. In hand: The walking stick gifted to me a half decade ago by wandering guitarist and wise-man of Knoxville, Bill Page.

Once I was geared-up, I made for the Refuge chapel. Services had already begun when I walked down the stairs; everyone was singing hymns. On my way out I shook Pastor Dan’s hand, received a hug from Missy, some goodbye words from Nick; and I left them all with my hope of sending back a true farewell message upon reaching my destination.

I was officially on the road! I walked to Main Street and turned south, heading toward I-44. Some forty blocks and three pit stops later, I first set foot to highway.

Some three hours and twenty thousand footfalls later, the thrill of setting foot to highway had worn off a bit. My pack was cumbersome and the aluminum frame was biting into my hips. The guitar I had slung over my left shoulder continually slid away from my body, requiring me to reposition it every two to five minutes. The weight of the full load on my upper body was causing me to stop evermore frequently to rest. And so far, no one had even slowed to consider picking up this wayward soul.

This new experiment in modern hitchhiking had started off heavy on the hiking; but lacking somewhat in the ‘hitch’ department. I was getting frustrated. Each vehicle that passed by me took a small piece of my patience and virtue with it. Over the course of the three hour trek my roadside prayers had decayed from “Give me strength Lord” to “Deliver me Lord” to “Send me an angel, Lord” to “Send me an angel in a Buick” to “How can all these assholes just drive by a man in need!?”

My forehead was salty, my neck was red and sore, and I was struggling to keep my spirits up. Suddenly I had a moment: Not unlike a hot-flash. I absolutely had to get out from under this damnable pack right this second before I dug my nails into it and ripped it from me, incredible hulk style. Heavily and with great drama, I fell to my knees and into the grass beside the highway.

Luckily a bit of wandering concrete, hidden beneath the grass, broke my fall; nearly doing the same to my right kneecap. The impact of the blow was made all the worse by the extra thirty-five pounds of the pack still clinging to me. I stared at the ground for a moment, on hand and knee in agony. Somehow I got free of the backpack and rolled over wincing, holding my knee, and calling out to God, “I am your soldier Lord. Make me strong.”

I lay there in the grassy ditch for a good minute, first letting the pain subside and then just enjoying the sensation of being off of my feet. Blowing up like that was good for me. By the time my theatrics had ended I felt reborn. The last three hours worth of frustration had been released and I was back in a godly frame of mind; laughing at myself for all the silliness.

When I finally started to sit up I caught sight of a van on the side of the highway, backing up toward me. ‘Finally, a ride!’ I thought. Springing back to life, I loaded all the gear back onto my spine and walked up to meet my saviors.

As I approached, a middle aged man came out the passenger door asking, “Are you all right? We saw you fall back there and I thought you might’ve collapsed of heat exhaustion!”

As I started to explain the whole affair another man, yet unseen, emerged from behind us with a hands-free cell phone in his ear.

“I called 9-1-1. When I saw you lying on the side of the road and the van over here backing up. I figured they must’ve run you over!”

I started thanking and apologizing in both directions, each man talking over the top of the other as the traffic continued zipping by just behind us. When the road noise died down I heard the man with the ear-piece speaking to someone over the phone.

“Hi. Yeah, I just called in a corpse lying on the side of I-44. It was a false alarm. He’s up now.”

As I continued the apologies, a full-length fire truck trailed by an ambulance pulled onto the scene, blocking the right lane of highway traffic. Thinking back on it, all the moment needed to be truly complete was a group of half-naked women running around in lingerie to the tune of the Benny Hill theme song. Of course, at the time the tone of the participants was quite serious.

I managed to convince the fireman that I was alright and the roadside tea party started to break up. The folks in the white van were kind enough to give me a lift about ten miles up the road before setting me back on the easement and making their turn off of I-44. Ten miles is better than nothing, but not by much. Still, I had faith the Lord was at work.

The day wore on and I continued, several more hours, this slow and steady trek across the flat Missouri concrete, without a ride. When four o’clock rolled passed me my negativity began to build again, filling my already overweight backpack that much more with gloom.

The sun was setting and I had become bothered. I wasn’t concerned for myself, mind you; I knew that God would deliver and care for me as He deemed fit: If that meant sleeping in a highway ditch twenty miles outside of Joplin, I would suffer that and whatever else the Lord willed for me. I was bothered, instead, for all these commuters who saw me: walking with outstretched thumb; being slowly crushed beneath my load; dusk lingering on the horizon; and who chose to just smile and keep on truckin’.

What they had, I was in need of. They knew this. They could see this - but they did not offer. Here it was, Sunday: What most of these bible-belt Christians consider God’s holy day. Yet not one, this whole ‘Sabbath,’ had stopped for me… That is except when they thought me dead or dying.

At first I was sad for them. I was disappointed in them and I mourned for the growth of their souls. Quickly enough, though, my sorrow turned to a parental, fatherly anger. I wanted to chastise them each individually for their lackings. Much like Jacob on his deathbed, I wanted to scorn them for their heartlessness and make them understand their folly.

I wanted to sit them in a corner and yell, “Oh faithless and depraved generation. You know that you are called by your belief to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. You know: that what you have you are charged by God to give. But here you see your brother and your fellow disciple weary, alone, and wanting of that which costs you nothing to deliver him; and here you would avert your eyes; and here you would defile yourselves by crossing to pass the needy at the other side of the trail.

If you are truly men of God what do you fear? Fear you for your lives? Fear you for your property and purses? I tell you, better you should fear the Lord Almighty whom you have scorned this day; for in Him you threaten to remove yourselves not only of your lives, but of your immortal souls!”

Nonetheless I walked on, thinking rather to bless them who passed me so carelessly; for in God we are called to love and to bless those even who would run us afoul.

When the sun had at last lowered itself one half into the horizon, the Lord finally sent me my angel: He wasn’t driving a Buick, but he’d have to do.

I placed my pack, guitar, and staff into the back of the pick up truck before me and hopped into the passenger seat. My evening’s chauffer was a seventy-one year old man named Tony. He was headed all the way up I-44 to St. Louis. This meant he could bus me straight to my planned destination for the night, Springfield.

In talking to Tony I soon found that I had stumbled on that rare and elusive beast, the Christian. Not just a “Christian,” mind you, but a Christian. As I have shared my story – that of leaving home and job in pursuit of God’s calling – with those in Joplin, I only once felt truly understood by any man: a white-bearded, salt and pepper haired sage by the name of Lonnie.

Lonnie alone seemed to truly know and comprehend what I meant when I told him that I could nolonger play at the world’s game; that the forty hour work week spent in pursuit of money, and the retail goods it would purchase, was completely unfulfilling to me and moreso unnecessary; that though I felt no aversion to any kind labor I would not do it lest the work be godly or the Lord Himself were to set me to it.

Lonnie knew. Lonnie understood. He himself lived in a tent and worked only when it suited God’s calling, or when the workplace was found worthy. He had long since given up the life of personal gain, taking on a persistent mindfulness to the desires of the Lord.

Tony, my new shepherd, was of this same breed. When I told him my story, he got it. And in so many words he congratulated me on escaping the trappings of the deceiver; commending me for my head-first plunge into the teachings of Jesus and the love of God.

Riding to Springfield with Tony was just the spiritual refueling I needed after a long lonely day on the road. The conversation strengthened and uplifted me and his company warmed my heart.

As we drew closer to Springfield I knew not what would come of the night. I had packed for the trip, expecting to sleep “rough” while I was on the road, but a week before I left I had given my sleeping bag away to one of the former Refuge residents who was weathering the thirty and forty degree nights in a tent. As for my sleeping arrangements, I had left it all in God’s hands.

In fact, just getting to Springfield fulfilled the extent of all my planning in the matter. Beyond that point I knew that I would travel east on highway 60, but I had gathered no details nor bothered to consider how I would survive passed Joplin’s borders. This is how I came to Joplin: a bus ticket and faith. And I left her much the same, sans only the ticket. God would guide my footfalls, I would simply move my feet.

With this in mind and nightfall upon me I had no idea where or how I would bed within Springfield. I knew nothing of the town, nor did I want to get bogged down by nesting anywhere deep within it. Springfield was a checkpoint for me, not a rest stop.

Even as my thoughts had just begun to turn toward these things, my day’s savior, Tony, began to speak.

‘Well, I don’t think I really want to drive all the way to St. Louis tonight. Maybe I’ll just stop in Springfield. I like to stay at the ‘Motel 6.’ It’s only a few more dollars for a second person. If you want, I’ll get a room for the both of us and you can get a fresh start in the morning.’

The Lord provides.

-

After a shower and a good night’s rest I was ready to face the road again. But I refused to take that evil, green canvas backpack with me. In the mirror I could see the two red welts left on my lower back by the pack’s “support bar,” which had rubbed infuriatingly against my upper hip bone all day. I could stand to be without this manner of “support;” in fact, I simply wouldn’t tolerate it another day. So I took the bag out back, pulled out my six shooter, and put the old gal down. (Sorry Kyle.)

I pulled the smaller and more comfortable bumblebee-colored backpack from the remains of the defunct, lumbar-mounted torture device; upgrading this yellow and black “American Eagle” to the status of ‘primary pack.’ I loaded the outstanding contents of my former rig into a plastic grocery bag and tied it shut. From here on out I would have to grip this plastic bag with my free hand, letting it dangle beneath the guitar. Despite having all extremities now occupied, leaving that green monster behind made the load a thousand times more bearable.

When we left the ‘Motel 6,’ Tony was kind enough to diverge from his route, shuttling me to the highway 60 onramp; saving me what appeared to be a 10-15 mile walk from the northwest to the southeast corners of Springfield.

As I stepped from the pickup, bidding Tony thanks and farewell, the sky overhead grew fat and dark with clouds. The previous night’s news had called for grey skies and intermittent showers over the next two days. I couldn’t be bothered to wait for foul weather to pass: I only had four days remaining to reach Nashville. I would have to walk through it.

Anticipating the rain, I unrolled my plastic, camouflage rain-poncho; sliding my arms into the sleeves and draping the back of it over the little yellow backpack which contained my laptop. The poncho would not zip closed in this state, leaving the front of my body exposed to whatever weather might come. But should the rain come down it would be able to keep my head, my back, my pack, and my computer dry. This would have to be enough.

I walked east on 60 for no more than a half hour before I found my first ride. He was a recently retired Airforce master chief, now returned from his last mission over Iraq. We chatted for a bit on the topics of religion, the barren wastelands of Anbar Province, and my current travels. Some thirty miles up the road, the rain had finally burst loose the clouds. Meanwhile, my driver was soon to turn from the highway leaving me at the roadside.

Rather than drop me in the downpour, he stopped short of his exit and let me out at a McDonalds, buying me a Sausage and Egg McGriddle at the drive-through in the process. I thanked him thoroughly for his kindness and generosity, gathering up my things and bouncing happily into the McDonalds’ dining area to eat.

I’d never tried a McGriddle before. I have to question the wisdom of putting ‘scrambled’ eggs and an oil-soaked sausage patty between two sweetened, cornbread-like silver dollar pancakes. Personally, I don’t put ketchup on my pancakes; and I don’t know any who do… Nonetheless I enjoy a little catsup with my sausage and eggs. Before I knew how sweet those little pancake bits were, I squeezed a whole packet of the stuff between egg and bun.

It wasn’t bad, per say; I certainly mowed through it without hesitation. I just wasn’t expecting the strange flavor combination I ended up with. Perhaps a warning label would be of benefit: “CAUTION: Adding McDonalds’ brand ketchup to this product increases its sugar content beyond what mortal men typically desire with their eggs.”

When I stopped convulsing from the diabetic seizure I noticed a sign in the window that read, “WiFi Here.” Excellent! I could liberate my laptop and get online: maybe send out some emails and let everyone know how far I had come on my journey.

I tore the laptop from the yellow backpack, booted up, logged onto the McDonalds wireless connection, and opened Internet Explorer. But instead of my homepage – Google – I was greeted by a McDonalds page. ‘Okay,’ I figured, ‘They hijacked my homepage. That’s a bit unexpected but tolerable.’ But as I read through the webpage before me I realized that I should have paid closer attention to that sign hanging in the dining room window.

If I would have been using my TV-Q, I would have read, not just what was written, but what they hadn’t printed on the sign as well. It was lacking that magic word, much loved by the advertising community: “FREE!” If it were free, they would have plastered it all over the signage. But all it said was “Wifi Here.”

In my Internet browser stood an interface asking me to purchase online time; $2.75 per 2 hours.

No thank you. I’ve got $4.00 in my wallet and four days to get to Nashville: I think I’ll pass on the pay-as-you-go wireless. Honestly, I should think it enough that I ate your sweet and salty, syrup, sausage, and egg monstrosity; for that I would expect the internet access to be gratis: Ya’ know: Like it is everywhere else in the free world. But I suppose it’s a brave new generation of vipers out there, and every man’s got a profit margin to pad.

I sealed up my laptop and waited for the rain to slow. As I loaded my things back onto my back, the rain not only slowed but stopped; hailing my return to the highway.

I walked for an hour without a ride; the rain starting and stopping all the way. But it was a light rain, for the most part, and the wind was at my back. So despite my un-sealable poncho, I was kept fairly dry.

Sometime after that first hour the real downpour finally began. The waters came down with a vengeance and the wind shifted against me. My t-shirt stayed dry under the cover of the poncho’s large hood, but my pants were soaked and even my insulated boots had begun to take on a spongy, inner moisture.

After just two minutes walking through the swell I knew I had to seek cover. Just up the road I saw a closed - perhaps abandoned - diesel filling station with a large rain shelter standing over the pumps.

I stepped up my pace, moving off the side of the highway and following the muddy dirt drive to this: my temporary refuge. By the time I reached it the rain was coming down so hard, and at such an angle, that even beneath the filling station’s cover the only shelter from the spray was to huddle against the backside of the pump itself. So I sat, rolling a cigarette and watching the traffic zip by.

About a quarter hour later, the rain had slowed and I knew I couldn’t sit there forever. So it was back under the poncho for me. As I walked down the highway, raising my walking stick in appreciation to the truckers who were kind enough to merge away from me, a pickup truck snuck up behind me and pulled over.

Though the rain had all but stopped, I wasn’t expecting to get many rides for a while, considering how wet I was. But here a half-rusted pickup truck, carting two tireless steel rims was bidding me inside. I hopped in. My driver was a young guy: I’m guessing early twenties. He asked me where I was heading. I told him, “Nashville eventually, but any stretch up 60 east is much appreciated.”

Then he began to tell me his story:

“Well, I was just coming into work at the auto shop when I got in the door and saw my boss sitting at his desk praying. I asked him, ‘What you praying for?’ And he pointed out the window saying ‘See that kid out there walking in the rain? I’m praying for him.’

‘Here’s five bucks. Go pick him up, give him the money, and take him down to the gas station so he can dry off.’”

He drove me a quarter mile up the road, gave me $5.00, and dropped me at the “Lazy Lee’s” gas station. As soon as I walked into the building I turned around to see my deliverer pull away. Just then the rain came down as hard and heavy as it had back at the diesel pumps.

The Lord provides.

I bought a French vanilla cappuccino and sat in a booth drying myself for about an hour there at the “Lazy Lee’s.”

When I finally left the filling station the rain had stopped entirely. The clouds overhead had broken and the sun was shining strong and bright out of the west. All in all, the rain and weather hadn’t bothered me much. In fact, it gave me something to focus on: It distracted me from the mental and physical stresses that had often slowed and stopped my travels the day before.

Once that sunshine came through, it was truly a glorious journey the rest of the day. I walked faster and more vigorously then, than I would in all the remaining of my Nashville-bound travels. Something about the fresh rain air, the flat Missouri plain, and the newly reborn sunshine provided me more energy and verve than I knew what to do with.

I walked for a solid stretch before being picked up by two country boys in an old pickup truck. The driver turned out to be former Airforce - making for the second erstwhile flyboy to pick me up in so many hours. He took me another thirty miles or so up the road. After making a stop in a small town off the highway, he dropped me at the top of the on-ramp back to 60.

I lay my gear where he let me out and smoked a cigarette. I was making great time so far. Despite the rain I had already traveled approximately seventy miles. One more short ride and I would have the hundred miles I had been hoping to travel, on average, each day.

I tossed my cigarette to the curb and laid the load on my shoulders once more. About half way down the on-ramp a middle-aged couple in a four door sedan stopped to pick me up. What luck! I had just been dropped off and I already had another ride. I loaded my gear in the trunk and we were off.

As soon as we hit the highway, the husband outstretched his arm into the back seat, handing me a diet Dr. Pepper and a bag of chips. It turns out this couple had been at the same McDonalds I sat in earlier, eating breakfast and finding harbor in the storm.

They made the long trip into Springfield to see a doctor and found themselves waylaid there most of the day. When they saw me walking down the on-ramp six hours later, something compelled the couple to pull over and pick me up - something they assured me that they had never done before.

As we chatted, raking over the usual hitching dialogue: Where are you headed; Where are you coming from; Where did you live originally; I eventually started to tell what I call my ‘origin story:’ The tale of how I came to choose homeless transience over so-called stable, work-a-day living.

The man sat quietly in the front passenger seat of the car, saying very little throughout my many monologues. It was, instead, his wife who spurred the conversation forward with interjection and inquiry. Eventually I found myself talking about my mother and her situation back in Michigan: She’s been fighting the state for Social Security Disability for two years or more, due to a partially diagnosed spinal and nervous system condition.

As I expounded on her condition and seemingly endless battle for adequate treatment, the wife started nodding her head and looking to her husband, saying, “So I guess it’s not just here; it’s the same all over.”

Apparently the husband shared much of my mother’s ailments. The couple’s earlier visit to the doctor in Springfield was made in hopes of resolving the same type of back pain and deteriorating nervous conditions that she held. And the doctors, HMOs, and government policy makers in Missouri were giving these folks much the same run-around that those in Michigan have long been using to stick-it to my mother.

We continued chatting and I began to tell a few of my many stories from Joplin. As each of these tend to begin and end with the Lord’s direct intervention, the telling of them drew out the godliness of my road companions. The relatively quiet husband had just been baptized a few months before. And I suspected the two of them were silently awed by the seemingly fictitious tales I was unraveling before them.

When we had drawn within ten miles of the couple’s turn-off point I started to think about the coming night. It was fast approaching six o’clock. The sky was now dim with twilight and I, of course, had no idea where I would bed. Nonetheless the presence of God in that car made it nothing worth worrying over; merely an errant thought.

Smiling, I said aloud, “I’ll be curious to see where God puts me tonight. Ever since I set foot in Joplin I’ve been expecting a hard life; sleeping rough and weathering the difficulties of being jobless, homeless, car-less… But so far the only night I haven’t had a roof over my head was when I intentionally turned up two available beds and chose to sleep under a bridge: Trying to toughen myself up for the trials I expected to come.

Even yesterday: I hitched out of Joplin with no more than four dollars to my name. And by the end of the night the Lord had still managed to deliver me into a shower, a bed, and a warm hotel room.” I chuckled, “I mean, when does this start getting hard? I expect it to be hard. Yet I am so-far amazed at the power of God and His provisions. I’ll really be curious to see what He does with me tonight.”

A few minutes later we reached the couple’s destination. They pulled into a gas station just off the highway to let me out. The husband disappeared quickly into the storefront as the wife came around to the trunk, helping me unload my gear and handing me a pair of Minute Maid grapefruit drinks for the road.

As I said my goodbyes to the wife, the husband leaned out the gas station door beckoning me inside. In the building, he introduced me to the woman working the counter telling her to ‘Take care of this boy.’ Then he turned to me, put out his hand, and shoved $100.00 in twenty dollar bills into my palm saying, “There’s a motel right across the street. If you can’t find another ride tonight, get yourself a room.”

I thanked and thanked him, leveling “a thousand blessings” on them both. I followed him back out to the car in persistent, continued thanks until they pulled away. Then I went into the gas station and sat down in a corner booth, thanking God and praying that every good thing should come upon that man and his wife. Not a day has passed since that I haven’t paused at some point, asking God to bless and keep these two.

That night I would sleep in my own motel room at the ‘Motel 60,’ featuring two beds, satellite TV, and for the first time since I left Michigan: privacy.

The Lord provides.

-

As far back as 1916 American farmers tried to introduce the insect ‘Harmonia axyridis,’ colloquially known as the ‘Asian Lady Beetle,’ into their fields to combat the effects of sap-sucking aphids on their crops. The Asian lady beetle is native to northeast Asia and acts as a natural predator to aphids. These early attempts to introduce it to American fields, however, proved unsuccessful.

In 1980 the U.S. Department of Agriculture made their own attempt to introduce these ladybug-like insects into the southeast; again the attempts were purportedly unsuccessful. However, in 1988 an established population of the insect was found just outside of New Orleans, Louisiana. In the two decades following its discovery, this origin-population would thrive in North America; spreading throughout most of the continental United States.

Trust me: It gets relevant.

After a quick breakfast at the diner next to the ‘Motel 60’ I was back on the road. The sky was overcast again and though I would be in and out of my rain poncho much of the morning in anticipation, I wouldn’t see a drop of rain all day. Within the first twenty minutes I found a ride: A thirty-something mom and her teenage son and daughter.

As I loaded my gear into the trunk of her car I noticed a book authored by Ellen G. White – a woman who lived in the 19th century, held by the ‘Seventh Day Adventist’ community to be a modern prophet of God. I asked her about it, thinking I had found an ‘in’ to start talking about God. But she responded as though it were just another piece of trash floating around her trunk.

I skirted around the godly topics for a bit, but found no easy starting point. Instead I found a general aversion to religion altogether; the same I and most of my Michigander compatriots held for so many years. When I picked up on it, I didn’t press the issue much more.

Perhaps someday I’ll be that guy who gets up in your face to tell you just how much you need God in your life, but that’s not in my character yet. She carted me about twenty miles up the road before dropping me across the street from a McDonalds, deep within the rocky foothills of Missouri.

The landscape was beautiful. I stood in the bosom of slightly mountainous, autumn shaded, forest covered hills; sand-colored stone embankments; and rolling mounds of green grazing pastures. I couldn’t think of a better backdrop for another day’s journey.

That is, until I had walked up and down a few of those rocky, forest covered hills. The splendor of a landscape can be quickly obscured by the burden of crossing it, and I would be hoofing it up and down these thirty degree inclines all day. In fact, after that first early morning ride I would be on foot the next five hours or so.

Still, the walk was good and I managed to keep an upbeat attitude throughout most of the day. My burden was eased by the beauty of the backdrop and the occasional company of curious horses and grazing cattle; to whom I would snort, neigh, and moo for my own deranged amusement.

My faith, though, was the greatest load-lifter. The certainty within me, that God was walking beside me and making movements on my behalf, had been made all the stronger by this third outing; in remembrance of how much He had already provided me in days before. All of which had been multiples greater than what I felt myself deserving. So even when I felt my own petulance building, I swatted it away aptly in the firm conviction that my Father was plucking at unseen forces, working an unknown plan.

Nonetheless, four hours into the long walk, at around two o’clock, my pessimism finally found itself a foothold. I had been taking roadside breaks once every ten to fifteen minutes. I would set the guitar, walking stick, and plastic bag on the ground and hunch over myself, with hands on knees: taking the weight of the backpack’s straps off my shoulders and placing its load more squarely onto my upper back. When I needed a greater break, (or a cigarette) I would take the backpack off and sit at roadside for a bit, behind my gear.

Now, throughout the day I had often been accompanied by two or three of these little multi-colored Asian beetles - clinging to my jeans, or walking the length of my guitar bag. They hadn’t been much of a nuisance. Very rarely would one get close enough to my neck or face to draw the flick of my finger. And I figured if I was asking others to give me a lift, it would be karmically hypocritical of me to deny the same to these modestly unobtrusive insects.

Even so, as I have so skillfully foreshadowed, these: my little red and black travel companions would turn from friend to foe at this, the dual-strike of the hour’s sounding bell.

For whatever reason, the Asian lady beetle seems to be drawn to dark colors, and I had found myself walking a roadside littered with thin patches of black shrubbery. Before realizing this I sat down on the concrete for one of my cigarette pit-stops. I dropped my gear, rolled the cigarette, lit it, and found myself staring down at the sight of, not two or three, but at least eight of the little critters climbing the wrinkles of my dungarees.

Still more had flocked to my guitar case. And the bravest of their lot were climbing my – oh Lord – dark black t-shirt. I jumped to my feet, brushing them from my chest and stamping my feet in the effort to shake them free of me. As I peered down the length of my body at the little devils, my eye’s focus shifted to the ground beneath me where they had fallen. There I saw the crushed remains of a little red beetle that must’ve found its way under my roadside Celtic step-dance routine.

As I lifted my eyes to the grassy embankment I saw a virtual armada of flame colored assailants rising from the brush, readying their attack. I had been outflanked! In no less than ten seconds I hastily threw every piece of my gear back onto my person and double-timed a retreat; swatting and brushing at this Japanese horde all the way.

From that moment on I could not stop for rest. Each time that I tried to take respite at the curb I would watch as the same cloud of insects slowly rose out of the black grass; no doubt having been radioed by their allied camp, and now seeking vengeance for their fallen comrade. Damned persistent Nips!

I would walk steadily for an hour, finding only momentary relief at the occasional driveway; where I could hide from the lady beetles just long enough to hunch myself over for a half-minute or two. Otherwise I was forced to continue humping the road non-stop, up and down the inclines, without harbor.

A little before three o’clock, I came upon a monstrous hill. Weakened from the hour’s restless walk I forced myself up the long, steep incline under the self-made promise that there was something special awaiting me at the top of it. Specifically, I imagined a large van parked just beyond the crest, containing a frame-mounted massage table and a masseuse who happened to specialize on shoulder aches and lower back realignments.

As I climbed the daunting road before me I could contain my negativity nolonger. I began to turn my sweaty brow and mounting frustrations upon the passing motorists. Where the Bible tells us to ‘bless and not curse our enemies,’ I had begun blessing the cars zipping by me out of a partially jocular spite. Lest there be any question among you, this is not the intent of the teaching; and I knew it. Still, this is what I did as I climbed that hill.

By the time I approached the apex I had let my tongue so loose of its bridle that I cast my first ill-meaning profanity. I looked over my shoulder, seeing yet another passenger van moving to the left lane, meaning to pass me on the farthest side. I turned my eyes forward again saying aloud, ‘That’s right motherfucker. Just drive by. No need to think of anyone but yourself. I’m just your brother in need.’

Even as I said these things, the same van that I was cursing emerged from my peripheral vision; pulling to a stop at the roadside before me. I walked to the passenger window, greeting the twenty-something male driver with a “Howdy.”

“Where you headed?” he asked.

“Well, Nashville eventually, but any stretch up 60 east would be a great help.”

He hesitated, looking down at some papers on the console between the front seats. “Nashville, huh? I think that’s where I’m going too.”

This young man, Ryan, would later tell me of his brother’s recent return to North Carolina from serving in Iraq. He was headed through Nashville on his way to the east coast to visit. And he would shepherd me the whole rest of the way to my destination that very afternoon.

This man, the only who I had truly cursed from the edge of the road, would be my deliverer. He would treat me to snacks at the gas stations, dinner at a Taco Bell, and a cup from a jug of homemade wine which he had fermented himself as a wedding gift for his returning brother.

As a Christian he would bless me with godly conversation, encouragement in my travels, and the sound of a ‘Bloodhound Gang’ CD that I hadn’t heard since high school. I would arrive in Nashville, spiritually uplifted, physically refreshed, and a little tipsy from the wine.

Ryan left me at the same Taco Bell where we ate dinner; just a thirty minute walk away from downtown Nashville. I headed up the street to one of the many hotels on the strip and rented myself another room for the night; using the money gifted to me the day before.

I had made it to Nashville – two days ahead of schedule no less. And never on my journey had I been without a shower or a place to rest. I left Joplin with $4.00 to my name. Three nights and three motel rooms later I had traveled five hundred miles by thumb, foot, and faith alone, and I was left holding a net monetary gain.

Who denies the power of my God? Who denies His provisions? Who shall deny His Love?

Spring Hill, Florida - written 11-*-07