The Journey

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“Thank you for calling Travelers, this is Jeanie speaking. How may I help you.”

“Yeah. . uh hi, umm. . . I was trying to buy  some insurance on your website and I was having some trouble?”

“Ok, what kind of insurance were you trying to buy?”

“I wanted to buy travel insurance?”

“Okay, I can help you with that. Let me just get some information from you.”

“Okay.  Thanks so much. I kept trying to submit my application and I kept getting these error messages, you know?”

“I understand. Let’s get started with your dates of travel.”

“Umm, well it’s kind of open-ended. I’d like to begin my journey as soon as possible really, but I’m not sure when I’ll. . .arrive, you know.”

“Okay, we can work with that.  Do you have a ballpark, a general of idea of when you want to depart and return.”

“Well, in terms of departure, I’m thinking today would be great.  You know what they say:

‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’  As for return, ideally I don’t ever want to come back.”

“Ok. . .that is a little tricky. We can insure you for same day travel as long as you haven’t already begun your trip.  But we can only insure your travel for a specified length of time. It sounds like you’re considering an open ended trip so what I’d suggest you do is buy insurance for however long you think your trip is going to be--a week, a month, 90 days, whatever.  And then you can always extend it if you want.”

“Ok that sounds workable. What’s the longest amount of time I can buy insurance for.”

“90 days is the maximum, but you can always extend that.”

“Ok, so let’s do 90 days.”

“Very good.  And will your travel be domestic or international?”

“I don’t really know. . .I may have to stay close to home, because you know, I have a job and everything.  But then again, I might just quit--you know, tell the boss to take this job and shove it.  Man, that would feel so good.  Another thing is, I”m not sure how my wife is gonna feel about all of this. I might need to flee to Mexico, if you know what I mean.  I’m not even sure if I believe in marriage anymore, you know.  I’m kind of interested in exploring open marriage?  But again I don’t know how that’s going to go.”

“I’m not quite sure I follow. . .you’re not sure where you’re going?”

“Well, I don’t where I’m going.  But I sure know where I’ve been. Hanging on the promises and the songs of yesterday. But I’ve made up my mind; I ain’t wasting no more time. “

“Pardon me?”

“I’m going down the only road I’ve ever known.  Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone.”

“So it sounds like you’re staying fairly local.  Domestic travel it is.”

“Sure.  But like I said, that could change.”

“Ok, but just to be clear, the type of package we offer does depend on the nature of your travel.  And I have to stress that once you’ve begun travel we aren’t able to change your coverage.”

“I understand.  I just know I need to do this and I know I need insurance.”

“That’s fine. We’ll do our best to work with you.  Let’s talk about coverage.  What kind of coverage do you need?”

“I don’t know. Probably best to get it all.”

“Well, our most popular package is our vacation package--that includes trip cancellation--”

“Oh no, I don’t want that!”

“You don’t want what?”

“The trip cancellation.  The last thing I need is anything that will tempt me to back out. "

“Well, just to be clear it applies to certain common situations in which your trip might be cancelled--family health emergency, hurricane damaging your destination or cancelling your flight, that sort of thing. You can’t just cancel your trip and expect insurance to cover you.”

“I don’t care. I don’t need any excuses not to take this journey. No cancellation insurance"

“Okay, that’s a bit unusual but we can do that.  What about the other provisions of a vacation package. We have medical emergencies, evacuation, lost, stolen, or delayed baggage, all covered in one convenient plan.”

“Okay, so medical emergencies. .. yeah, let’s go with that.  Like I said, I don’t know how my wife is gonna take this. She might kill me!”

“So we can add AD&D. ..”

“AD&D?”

“Accidental Death and Dismemberment”

“Oh yeah, definitely. Dismemberment could be in my future especially when she finds out about the Porsche I bought.  Now, about the baggage.  My whole goal is to get rid of my baggage, so I don’t think I need that.”

“You’re traveling without baggage?”

“That’s the goal.  That’s the goal.”

“Okay. ..”

“And what’s this about evacuation?”

“If you needed to be evacuated due to natural disaster or unrest.”

“So if I’ve found I’ve backed myself into a corner, I could be bailed out, right? I like the sound of that.”

“Sir, I’m not quite sure if you’re understanding how this works.  May I ask, exactly what kind of trip you are planning to take?”

“Well, I guess the best way to put it is that I’m embarking on a journey of self-discovery.”

“A what?”

“A journey of self-discovery. You know, finding myself.  My therapist says it’s important that I take this journey. And I feel like I really need insurance, because honestly I don’t know how this is going to go.”

“I’m sorry, we can’t insure you for a journey like that. We deal with actual, physical travel, not. . .mid-life crises.”

“Hey, that’s kind of low.”

“Just calling it like I see it, sir.”

“Damn.  Isn’t there anything I can purchase?  I mean what if something happens? I need some protection.”

“I hate to break it to you, sir.  But when it comes to self-discovery, I know what it means to walk along a lonely street of dreams.  And, well, it’s like you said earlier. . .you’re on your own.”

“I get the feeling you’re mocking me.”

“Not at all, sir. Not at all.”

“Okay, well I guess that’s it, huh.”

“Yes sir.”

**sigh**  “Here I go again.”

“Best of luck to you sir.”

Call disconnected.

Oops (Confessions of a Less-Than-Perfect Husband)

A less than flattering picture for a less than flattering moment. This is photo is of the actual sermon in which I ran afoul of good sense.  Who knows it might have even been the very moment when I firmly planted my foot in my mouth!

“Sean, nobody talks as much as you do.”  So said my 8th grade teacher, Mr. Grant, and I have to admit he’s probably right.  For me talking is as easy as breathing.  Whether holding court in conversation or speaking to a crowd from the front of the room, talking is my talent.  You would think that someone who talks as much as I do has many examples of verbal indiscretions--those moments where you say something and immediately your face feels prickly and hot as you ask yourself “Why on earth did I just say that.”  Open mouth, insert foot.  It happens to the best of us, and it stands to reason that it would happen to someone like me more than most.

But another thing about me is that I’m very careful with the words I use.  I rarely speak carelessly without carefully considering how my words will be received. I may talk a lot but I don’t shoot from the hip.   So when I had to think about the worst time I’d ever put my foot in my mouth, I not only couldn’t come up with the worst time, I couldn’t think of any time.  I knew that couldn’t be true--so I turned to the one person who would certainly be able to remind me of a time I’d put my foot in my mouth: my wife.  

I asked Barbara if she could think of a time when I’d said something I shouldn’t have to the embarrassment of myself and others.  And eventually she came up with an incident.  And honestly, I’d thought of that incident immediately when I read today’s prompt,  but I felt I dared not write about it.  After all I’d embarrassed my lovely wife once before, surely she wouldn’t want me to rehash it again.  But she insisted I tell the story in full, making sure my readers understood exactly how clueless I had been.  

As I’ve continued to reflect, I’ve realized that actually I put my foot in my mouth a lot with Barbara. As recently as today I’ve spoken carelessly to her and immediately realized the words that exited my mouth were foolishness.  Granted, most of the time these ill-chosen words happened just between us but on occasion I’ve brought my foolhardy tongue out in public.  One particularly egregious incident is the subject of this post:

In the spring of 2014 my family and I returned to Saipan where we’d spent eleven years as missionaries.  I had been invited to be the Week of Prayer speaker for the Saipan SDA School and my family joined me for the journey back to our island home.  It was a fantastic week.  It was such a pleasure to spend time with old friends and see all the familiar places we’d loved.  I spoke a lot that week.  Vespers the first Sabbath there, two stories for the preschool daily during week of prayer, as well as the talks to the elementary school, and the Sabbath morning sermon at the end of the week at the Central Saipan SDA Church.  It was during that Sabbath morning sermon that I committed my faux pas; and I didn’t even realize I’d said anything out of line at first.

Barbara hadn’t been feeling well that morning and hadn’t come to church with me. It seemed like I should provide some brief explanation to the congregation about her absence. Of course it wasn’t  in my prepared notes, but I thought I’d mention in passing the reason for her absence.   In hindsight, I don’t know why I didn’t simply leave it at “Barbara isn’t feeling well this morning, and will hopefully get here later in the service.”  But for whatever reason I decided to go this route instead:

“Good morning church, and happy Sabbath.  It’s been such a joy and privilege to be back here on our island home ministering, and worshiping here with you on Sabbath morning.  I know many of you are probably wondering where Barbara is this morning, and I’m sad to report that she isn’t feeling well. I don’t think it’s that serious, most likely it’s just a bad case of gas.  But do keep her in your prayers.  Today I’d like to talk about. . . “

And I went on with my sermon.  If I’d been paying attention, I might have noticed a few gasps of horror in the audience, some uncomfortable titters, women looking at each other aghast at this clown at the podium.  I went on, oblivious, and it was only when church was over that it was brought to my attention that I’d stepped in it--seriously.

Barbara had actually arrived at church and was in the mother’s room with Ezra when my sermon began.  She heard me sharing her gastrointestinal challenges with the entire church and was appalled.  She wanted to join the rest of the church for our last time of worship together before we returned to the States, but felt sure all heads would turn to see the “Gas Girl” miraculously healed of her affliction.  So she stayed in the mother’s room for the duration of the service.

I was feeling pretty good about my message until Barbara got me by the elbow after church and hauled me aside for a heated reprimand:

“Why would you tell everyone that I had gas?” she demanded.

“I don’t know love, I didn’t think it was that big deal.”

“Maycock! You don’t tell the whole church that your wife has gas. It’s humiliating.”

I might have been tempted to argue that she was being overly sensitive.   But the other women in the church were as incensed as Babs was.  The school principal, Sharon, in particular couldn’t stop talking about it.  “Why you would say that?” she kept asking me.  “Who does that?”

Apparently, I do.  And I never will again.

Finding Home

Suddenly David realized he didn’t know where he was.  It didn’t seem possible that one could get lost in one's own neighborhood, but then again this was a very large subdivision, with endless blocks of homes with vaulted ceilings and three car garages that all began to look the same when you weren’t really paying attention.  And David hadn’t been paying attention.

And also, David hadn’t done any running in the neighborhood until just recently even though he and Lauryn had bought their home there almost two years ago.  David hadn’t run much since college.

And also David hadn’t lived in his house for more than three months now--that’s how long he’d been separated from Lauryn.

And finally, David didn’t like to run by the house too much. He tried to time his runs when he knew Lauryn would still be at work.  He’d gotten in the habit of coming out for a run in the late afternoon before going back to the firm to work late into the night.  That way he could run and know she wouldn’t likely see him. But still, just to be on the safe side he’d only take a pass or two of the house before running up and down other streets in the vast, leafy, perfectly picturesque neighborhood.

He came here to run because he needed, in some small way, to hold on to the home he’d so carelessly lost.  He needed to see the gray siding and bright white trim, the brick driveway, the big windows Lauryn had fallen in love with.  He needed to imagine her still living there and hope she was still thinking of him.  He needed to find his way back.

But he also knew she might think him weak, pathetic, even creepy, so he tried to make sure she never saw him, which is why he ran away and how he ended up lost.

Breathing hard from the run he stood at the quiet intersection of a cul-de-sac very much like his own, but definitely not his, and tried to figure out where he’d come from and how he’d gotten here and how he could get back.

He was determined.  That was sure.  He was in it for however long it took; he would do whatever he had to.  She was worth it.  He knew that now.  He’d stopped paying attention. He’d gotten so lost inside his head that he’d wandered off course before he even realized it.  And now, now he must retrace his steps.  Find familiar landmarks amidst the numbing sameness. He could not give up in despair, not now.

And then as he stood there, a wet gust of wind blowing autumn leaves around his feet, the answer came to him.  So simple, he couldn’t believe it. He pulled out his phone and put in his home address. In seconds, the phone was telling him to turn left on Brookfield.  He was only 6 minutes away.

It turned out that finding the house he’d lost was easy.  Finding the home he’d lost would prove much more difficult.

Last Sentence

The Prompt: Select a book at random in the room.  Find a novel or short story, copy down the last sentence and use this line as the first line of your new story.

In the first case, the need was to renounce the consciousness of a nonexistent immobility in space and recognize a movement we do not feel; in the present case, it is just as necessary to renounce a nonexistent freedom and recognize a dependence we do not feel.

Or to put it more bluntly. I was in real trouble.

To put it still more severely, everything was happening too fast for me to have any real thoughtful reflection on my predicament. But if I’d been able to slow time down, like they do in the movies, that’s probably what I would have thought.

It’s funny how you keep doing stupid things right up until they really cost you and then it’s like scrabbling at air as you go off a cliff, wishing you could somehow take it all back and be smarter this time.

A thousand times I gambled.  Fiddled with the radio, opened a bag of chips--taking my hand off the wheel and willing the car to stay in it’s lane for the split second it would take me to get the bag open.  And then there was my phone.  The phone!  Finding my songs, taking a call, and yes, yes even checking my text messages and shooting a reply.

But it was so easy to do, so easy to trick myself, to “renounce consciousness” as a I would say if I were a great novelist instead of someone literally, but unwillingly, about to renounce consciousness.  You know it’s dangerous, but it feels so safe.  Sure it’s two tons of metal hurtling along at 80 mph. But in a quality car--like the one I drive, unfortunately--it feels like you’re barely moving at all.  Just floating on air, and who wouldn’t take a second to que up the perfect song for the drive when you’re essentially at a standstill.  

And now I have no choice but to recognize that it’s all out of my control now--the song, the drive, the car even now careening towards the guardrail.  There’s nothing left to do but depend on that which I’ve never needed more but never felt less certain of:

Jesus, take the wheel.

Tom Petty: Songs for the Moment

I remember it as a beautiful day. The hot Florida sun beat down on the smooth open stretch of I-75 out of Ocala towards Gainesville.  We had the radio on. Chris was driving his fiery red Mustang, Greg was riding shotgun, and I was scrunched in the back.

The trees flew by, and we and Tom were singing. . .

Well, we were singing "Runnin' Down a Dream".  I was only vaguely familiar with "Little Runaway" by Del Shannon, but I could sing Tom's song full-throated from memory.  We all could.  We might have thrown a few other cassettes in the tape player, maybe some Beatles or Guns N' Roses but we always came back to Full Moon Fever.  The way I remember it, we listened to it all the way up J's house (north of Micanopy and just west of Brooker) in High Springs. And then we played it all the way home at the end of the weekend.  We knew every song--not just the big hits that had Tom Petty all over the radio in those days--"Free Fallin'" and "I Won't Back Down" but the deep cuts, the reflective "A Face in the Crowd" and the lullaby "Alright for Now."  I haven't heard those tunes in years, and yet I hear them all the time.  They were the songs that bound four high school boys--two black, two white--together in friendship.  They were the soundtrack to the open roads, the long drives and long talks. Something about Tom Petty enabled this group of guys ordinarily prone to rough trash talk and constant ribbing to feel safe enough to sing with our hearts into the great wide open, free-falling.

Tom Petty's songs were a reference in so many points in my life.  He had a way with words and a way of putting those words to music that made his songs just right for the moment.  I often found his songs were the perfect coda to blog entry:  whether it was walking way from two plus years trying to "build our dream" or saying goodbye to a former student "learning to fly,"  Petty's songs fit the moment perfectly.  The first sermon I ever preached, believe it or not, was inspired by a Tom Petty song--"The Waiting."  "You take it on faith, you take it the heart, but the waiting is the hardest part." Just recently I've been listening to his song "Walls" from the She's the One soundtrack to inform my character in a play I'll be appearing in next month. Maybe his nasal twang and southern rock vibe aren't you're thing, but listen to the songs and I think you'll find the man could write.

There are songs that tell stories and there are songs that evoke emotion.  Tom Petty's songs managed to do both and the result were rich, nuanced moments in music that felt instantly recognizable. Check out "Listen to Her Heart"--the lyrics are seemingly confident, but you listen to the song and there's an undercurrent of uncertainty, as if the singer knows he's destined to lose his girl despite his apparent bravado. Tom Petty could sum up the human experience of love and loss and living at a particular moment in time like few others. That was his gift.

When I first heard the news that Tom Petty was clinging to life after suffering a massive heart attack Sunday evening, I had the immediate sense of denial, the sinking feeling of a lost opportunity slipping through my fingers forever.  Tom was easily one of my top five recording artists, and the only one I'd never seen in concert.  For awhile now I'd been thinking I really needed to make it a priority to buy some tickets, make it a road trip and see Tom Petty live.  Maybe on the next tour.  And then suddenly, there would be no more next tour.  No more music. Just like that all I had was the memories and the records.  It was not unlike the feeling I had realizing that the thank you letter to my Aunt Patsy would never be delivered, that the fill-in-the-blanks memory book I'd just purchased to share with my father-in-law would be blank forever.  Just like that, the moment had passed.

When will I learn?  We have to take these moments when we can.  Send the thank you note.  Ask Dad about those stories from when he was young.  Buy those tickets so you can sing along with your favorite artist in real life, instead of just behind the wheel of your car.  Because the hard truth, one that struck home on Sunday night for 59 families in Las Vegas and one family in Malibu (and countless more around this heartbroken world), is that at any second, the moment can pass, never to be retrieved again.

It's hard to put into words how this particular moment feels, when you realize your chance is gone forever.  There's one man who I know could have expressed it perfectly. But he's gone now.

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong in a boat out at sea
Sail away, kill off the hours
You belong somewhere you feel free

Run away, find you a lover
Go away somewhere all bright and new
I have seen no other
Who compares with you

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong in a boat out at sea
You belong with your love on your arm
You belong somewhere you feel free

Run away, go find a lover
Run away, let your heart be your guide
You deserve the deepest of cover
You belong in that home by and by

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong somewhere close to me
Far away from your trouble and worries
You belong somewhere you feel free
You belong somewhere you feel free

                                            --Tom Petty (October 20, 1950-October 2, 2017)

Choices Have Consequences

This past Saturday, as Elijah and I were arriving in Shippensburg, Pennsylvania we came across some Amish.  As we left the Turnpike, two ladies dressed in the 19th century dresses, bonnets, and aprons rounded a corner laughing gaily.  A man in a long gray beard and straw hat smilingly manured a tractor around a field, while ahead of us a quaint box-like horse-drawn buggy plodded along the country road. It was like a scene out of a movie.

A few minutes later we came across another young Amish family in a buggy stopped at a red light across the intersection from us.

I'd never seen the Amish up close like this before and I found it fascinating. It got me thinking again on something that's been on my mind for the past week or two: this idea that choices have consequences.  Most of us really don't want to think about this hard reality.  Any teacher or parent will recognize that moment when you confront a child about some misbehavior.  They look at the ground, scuff their shoes, and mumble "I don't know" when asked to consider why they did what they did, what they were thinking what they did it, and what they thought the consequences of their choice might be. They just don't want to own the choices they made because that would require them to face the consequences squarely.

But we adults do it too.  "Man, I don't know why I can't ever make it work on time."  "I don't know where the money went. . .more month than money ya' know?" "I don't know why I can't stay off my phone" #shrug.  The truth is the same for us as for that busted kid.  We claim not to know because it keeps us from facing the hard truth that we made choices.  We chose to be late.  We chose to spend.  We chose to be distracted.  It didn't "just happen."  We made choices. And now we live with the consequences.  Of course we--intentionally, I think--don't think about it that way.  But when we choose to keep doing "this little thing" and "that little thing" before heading out the door to work we are making a choice to be late.  When we buy whatever looks good off the grocery shelf rather than considering a budget, we are making a choice to have less paycheck than month.  When we pick up our phones rather than looking at our spouse, we are making a choice to disconnect from being present.

Which brings me back to the Amish. It struck me that this community decided not let life just happen.  Their culture decided they had choices.  They saw the world adapting various forms of technology, weighed the consequences they perceived of choosing to modernize, and chose to make a different choice.  I'm not saying that they were "right" in their choice. I just admire that they seemed to recognize that modernization was not an inevitability that just happened.  You could choose it. Or not.

That's something I think we could all learn from the Amish.

Here's a great article from the New York Times three days ago discussing the challenges the Amish face of weighing choices and consequences as the modern world presses on with ever greater pressure.  Fascinating read.


 "And I so hate consequences
And running from you is what my best defense is
Consequences
God, don't make me face up to this
And I so hate consequences
And running from you is what my best defense is
Cause I know that I let you down
And I don't want to deal with that"

                                             --Relient K

This is Us at 20 Years

This is us at the beginning: Sunday, July 27, 1997, Morris Chapel, Niles, Michigan

Today Babs and I celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary.  It doesn't feel "unbelievable".  It doesn't feel like a long time, or a short time. It just feels like life as we were meant to live it. Our shared journey feels timeless, like a classic song that never feels out of date.

This is us at 10 years: July 28, 2007, Waikiki Beach, Oahu, Hawaii

The past ten years have had a different tenor than the first ten.  It's hard to explain; obviously a lot changed since the last "big milestone" in our marriage.  It's no longer "just the two of us", we have a family now, two young boys we made together and who we now struggle together to raise right. Our life is less "big" now, the days of travel to exotic places, going and doing as we pleased (or at least as our budget allowed) have ended.  But it is a life fuller and richer than it was in the first decade.

But that's the funny thing about wealth; the more you gain, the more you stand to lose.  Within the last decade we've experienced the first of the close losses that inevitably will mount as the years ago by.  I've developed more of a sense of the fragility of "normal life", the reality of pain, and the remarkable beauty that can be found in sharing the struggle  and the joy with a life partner.

I can tell you that 20 years in, I still feel incredibly lucky.  I hear all the time that marriage is a miserable struggle sapped of joy, sex, and appreciation and yet I can't relate to any of that.  We've had our share of difficulties--there are underlying "issues" that we both have had since the say we said "I do" that still aren't resolved. And yet, there is this bedrock of mutual respect, appreciation, attraction, and friendship that holds steady and grows deeper as the years go by.

Twenty years ago I married the most beautiful girl in the world and my best friend. To me, she is still those things.

Herewith a recap:

Years 1-10 can be found here in this 2007 entry commemorating our first ten years.

Year 11:  The Babymoon
The first year of our second decade was our last without children.  That year was the year of the babymoon.  The first half dedicated to trying to make one; the second half devoted to getting ready for our child soon to come.  Looking back we should have probably been going out to dinner three times a week, relishing sleeping through the night and sleeping in, soaking in the pleasure of peace and quiet, knowing that the only demands made on us would be the mild ones of childless marriage. But, we worked, lived our lives oblivious to extent of the tremendous change bearing down on us.  We did make an effort at a last hurrah in the summer of 2008. For the first time in nine years we stayed in Saipan for the summer, as Babs was too pregnant to fly.  We took beach trips to Managaha, went to the Mandi (even stayed overnight at the Marianas Resort), took a dinner cruise.   It was a beautiful time, just the two of us, a time that by God's grace we will never return to.  We had been a couple for 11 years. Now we were about to be come a family.

Our 11th Anniversary, Sunday, July 27, 2008, Saipan, Northern Marianas Islands. The last anniversary dinner we had for which a sitter was not required.

Year 12: Parenthood
A month and four days into our twelfth year, our oldest son Elijah came into our world.  This was a year of massive change for us.  Between one anniversary and the next our family went from two to three, we moved to the other side of the world, and began a new chapter in our lives.  Most of the struggles of being new parents have receded into memory now. It was hard, I know but the difficulty is mostly forgotten.  All except those first three weeks after Elijah was born.  That time I still remember vividly. I don't think I've ever felt so much worry and love as I did as we felt the tremendous weight of keeping this little child of ours alive.  He had trouble breastfeeding at first and those weeks were a blur of sleeplessness, tears on all our parts, jury rigged feeding, anxious phone calls to lactation experts.  The unexpected blessing was the deep sense of connection I felt with my wife during that time.  We were in this together.  And it's still true.  The types of parenting struggles may have changed. We are still often short on sleep, there are still tears on all our part,s jury rigged parenting strategies made up on the fly, anxious google searches on what to do about the latest preposterous thing our children have perpetrated.  But, we're still in this together.

This is us on July 26, 2009, San Francisco, California. I had just completed the San Francisco Marathon. I spent the next day, our 12th anniversary taking the Praxis exam towards getting my  Ohio teaching certification.

Year 13: Here in America
We settled into ordinary life in suburban Ohio. For the first seven months of our new life, we lived with Barbara's parents in Dayton and I commuted daily to Columbus to work. Despite the three hour round-trip drive, this is one of my favorite times in our life.  When you live that far from where you work, when you leave work, you really leave. The Leens house felt like a cocoon, a comfortable oasis.  I loved driving into the garage and seeing Babs and Elijah waiting at the screen door to welcome me.  This was the one time in our lives as parents when we were able to have a weekly date night.  Every Saturday night we'd go to the movies. We'd go to the cheap theater and literally watch whatever was showing.    We analyzed the good ones and laughed about the bad ones.  It wasn't about the movie, it was about being together.

In February 2010 we moved into our apartment in New Albany, where we've lived since, and Barbara started working part-time at Stepping Stones pre-school, still spending most of each day with our young son.  We made a few trips in our thirteenth year of marriage, to Oregon for Thanksgiving 2009, to Florida in the summer of 2010. The biggest trip of all was a return trip to Saipan in the spring of 2010.  The trips were great, but the best part was that we took them together.

This is us after the Mat Kearney concert. Saturday, July 10, 2010, St. Alban's West Virginia

Year 14, 15:  The Quiet Years
These two years aren't particularly memorable and what a blessing! As I've gotten older, I've come to understand the wisdom of the old curse "May you live in interesting times."  The most compelling stories, the ones that we find most interesting often come with a heavy dose of pain.  These times were blissfully uninteresting. We finally brought our dog, Kimo, home from Saipan.  We left Elijah overnight for the first time in 2011, when I took Barbara to her first U2 concert in Chicago. We stayed the night at the Fairmont, the same hotel that we'd spent the first two nights of our honeymoon in 14 years earlier. We traveled to Oregon several more times, the last trip, in the summer of 2012.  By that time Barbara was pregnant with our second son.  Our lives were about to shift again, our hearts to enlarge again.

This is us at the Fairmont in downtown Chicago a few weeks before our 14th wedding anniversary.  This was the same hotel we spent the first two nights of our honeymoon. July 5, 2011, Chicago, Illinois

At a baby shower thrown by my mom and sister.  July 11, 2012, Apopka, Florida.

Year 16:  Family Focus
At the start of our 16th year of marriage, we made a big decision.  Babs decided she wanted to further reduce her half-time work schedule so that she could spend the majority of her time with our boys.  So in August 2012, she quit her job at Stepping Stones, brought Elijah home from daily daycare, and focused on being a full-time mom (save a day and half a week teaching art).  I gladly shouldered extra jobs at Kroger, tutoring, and running a morning latchkey program.  In November, our second son Ezra joined our family and we once again embarked on the adventure of parenting an infant (this time with a four year old in tow!).  This year our focus was all on the family .  Babs focused on being with our kids, and I focused on providing for them.  It wasn't always easy, but I never regretted it for a moment.  Every time, I was working a shift at Kroger or grading papers at school, and  Babs would text me a photo of some fun thing she and the boys were doing, it brought me such joy. Those photos made all the extra work more than worth it.

This is us in July a week or two before our  17th anniversary, July 2013. Anna Maria Island, Florida.

Year 17:  Precious Moments
In hindsight our seventeenth year was filled with precious moments, times we didn't realize were passing for the final time.  Babs was able to spend a lot of time with her parents, partly because I traveled a lot that year.  We took one epic trip together as a family, a return trip to Saipan where I was the week of prayer speaker, but beyond that I had several long trips.  There was my annual three or four day teachers retreat in August 2013 but also a class trip to Hawaii in 2014 and a week long trip to California for a conference in June 2014.  During these trips, Babs would take the boys and go stay with her parents.  I missed her a lot on those trips, wished she could have been with me, but in hindsight I'm glad that my absence gave her more time to spend with her dad.  The summer of 2014 was a truly precious moment of father-daughter time for them, and giving her that time (even it was by  my absence) is a gift I'm so glad I could give.

This is us July 27, 2014, our 17th anniversary.  We celebrated with a simple dinner and a movie I think near Universal Studios? Or was it Disney?  Orlando, Florida.

Year 18:  Loss
Our 18th year together was marked by loss.  On November 5th 2014, my grandmother died and I rushed to Florida to mourn with my family.  Exactly three weeks later, the day before Thanksgiving, we got the phone call no one ever wants to get.  Barbara's father had died unexpectedly.  And so began a new and painful journey as my wife entered into the Great Sadness, the deepest loss of her life. In the weeks and month after Dad passed, I felt so separate from her.  In days around his funeral, I was literally in another car as we went from funeral home to church to house to cemetery.  Babs rode with her sister and her mother and her sister's husband in one car while I followed in our car with the boys.  But it was fine. She needed to be with her first family then, and I was honored to step up with the boys, do what I could to give her space to grieve.  It's one of the things they don't tell you about marriage: that sometimes being there for your spouse means letting her be away for a bit.

In time, our connection reappeared and in the first half of 2015 we contemplated together what our shared world would like now that Dad was no longer in it.

This is us celebrating our 18th anniversary, July 27, 2015.  We enjoyed wandering around old Winter Garden and had a nice dinner.  Winter Garden, Florida.

Year 19: Double Income
In our 19th year, losing Dad continued to shape our life together in new ways.  We realized that the time had come for us to gain a stronger financial footing.  We felt keenly the need to be able to provide for our remaining parents should the need arise.  After years of letting the folks help us out when an emergency struck, it was time to position ourselves to be the helpers instead.  So as Elijah began first grade, Ezra started pre-school, and Barbara went back to full-time teaching.  In short order we doubled our income, but seemingly halved our time.  Both of us were now full-time workers and full time parents. It's been no easy task.  But like everything else in our lives, it's been nice to do it together.

In October of 2015, we went back to Berrien Springs, Michigan to commemorate the 20th anniversary of when we first met.  This is the approximate location of our first kiss. Back then this grassy lawn was the site of Barbara's apartment. I kissed her on her couch in her living room.

This is us about a week before our 19th anniversary. July, 2016. Ocoee, Florida

Year 20:  This is Us
And so here we are.  Twenty years in.  This is us: Shaped by grief and gratitude.  Worn in (and often worn out) by parenting.  Our marriage isn't perfect, but let me tell you, it's still pretty darn amazing that I get to wake up with this beautiful woman, this gorgeous soul, this dearest of friends, every morning and go to sleep next to her every night.  I love sharing life with her, even with all it' heartache and frustration and worry.  She makes the good times better and the tough times easier to bear.  These days I tend not to look forward so much as I simply try to be present more, to try to enjoy each moment with the love of my life.

Happy Anniversary, love.  I love you!

Cousins: Finding My Family

A bunch of cousins from two different generations.  The Benson-Maycock family reunion, July 2, 2017. In orange from left to right, Autumn Poole standing next to her husband my cousin Andy, cousin Lena who did an outstanding job organizing the reunion, cousin Denny and his girlfriend Michelle, Andy's son AJ, cousin Jason, and a family friend whose name escapes me.  The children are Denny's two and Elijah.

Cousins are a wonderful thing.  At least in my family.

As a kid our cousins were a highlight in our lives.  Close at hand were our cousins Nicole and Landon.  We saw them almost every day and, even though they were both significantly younger, just having them around made everything more fun.  And then there were the highly anticipated visits of our cousins from Michigan--Nabih, William, and Yvette Saliba.  They came down from the North once or twice a year, every year at Christmas and sometimes in the summer too.  Nabih is three years older than me and for a kid that felt like a decade older.  The difference between say a 12 and a 15 year old was huge.  But he deigned to hang out with us from time to time and it was always great.  William is only two months older than me and he was Vince and I's partner in crime.  Whether it was daring each other to jump off the roof of his house in Michigan, trading Transformers, or playing "Sneak" at night where we'd try to creep out of our room and spy on the grown-ups without getting caught, we always had the most fun.  As for Yvette, we didn't pay much attention to her as she was five years younger than me (and a girl, to boot), but I know she and my sister were grateful for the annual camaraderie of being the little to sisters to boorish older brothers.

And now my own children are the latter day Salibas coming down from the North once or twice a year to spend time with my sister's kids in their Florida paradise.  Those visits are the highlights of my kids year, and I wager the same is true of their cousins.

Cousins. You just can't beat em.

But here's the thing. . .I have a whole lot more cousins than I've truly realized until recently.  You see, I've never known my father's side of the family very well.  My parents got divorced when I was seven, and we moved first to the U.S. Virgin Islands and then to Florida, on the other side of the country from where my father lived.  I saw Papa, I think twice during my post-divorce childhood.  Once, in 1984 and again in 1989.  As for his family--my aunts, uncles, cousins, as well as my grandparents, I saw even less of them.  And I'll be honest here: I was really okay with that. I had no ill will towards any of them. I just didn't know them.  God bless them--they did make efforts; efforts I can only now begin to appreciate but that I often found baffling at the time. I remember Aunt Adrienne coming up from West Palm Beach to visit us in Orlando when she lived there.  I'm sure cousin Lena was with her, but truthfully, I can't really remember.  My grandmother always remembered my birthday and sent a card with a few dollars in it every year without fail.

When I was in college my brother and Vince and I made a pilgrimage up to Ionia, Michigan to see my grandparents and the stories of that visit--stories of my grandfather's wild but true stories and the story of my unfortunate decision to bring a novel along for the trip--are the stuff of legend. (Old-School Adventist Maycocks are very anti-fiction, as I learned ad nauseum on that visit!)  Barbara and I visited again a few years later and there were other family members there too, but I can't remember who.  And when we got married Uncle Antoine brought my grandmother and my two cousins Adam and Jason up for the ceremony.  There were other occasions where various Maycock's reached across the gap created by divorce and distance but I always found it hard to understand.  Why do they bother, I would wonder.  Why would they care who I am? They don't know me.  I was a little embarrassed that I got the relatives confused, that I wouldn't recognize  most of them on sight, that I didn't know their names.  Surely they must find my ignorance irritating. The concept of reaching out simply because we were family. . .I just didn't get it.

In the end , it was the cousins that brought me around and helped me find a great blessing in my life: my family.

Jason and Adam were relentlessly friendly.  My polite but non-committal responses to their overtures never seemed to faze them.  Karnice, Melanie, Jacqueline, Joe all friended me on Facebook and I dutifully accepted their friendship. Melanie even donated the final $300 one of my students needed to be able to go on his 8th grade class trip!  My cousin Denny (who goes by Dee on Facebook) I connected with in particular. I'm not sure why--maybe that like me he'd lived outside the U.S. mainland for years.  Something about these cousins of mine, somehow clicked for me.  Maybe it was feeling that they weren't so bound up in the austere version of Adventist Christianity that my father's generation represented to me.  I don't know.  What I do know is that in the end, my cousins were may way back in to the family I'd never really known.

This journey back to the Maycocks culminated in our decision to attend the Benson-Maycock family reunion and celebration of my grandmother's 100th birthday at the end of June.  The entire weekend was such a blessing and I'm so glad I attended.  You know that line from the Cheers theme: "where everybody knows your name and they're always glad you came."  It was like that.

With Grandmother

I was genuinely touched by the welcoming warmth we experienced from everyone all weekend long.  It began the moment we pulled up at my cousin Lena's house Friday night, where I was welcomed by one familiar face--Papa's--and many more long-lost kin that would soon become familiar by the weekend's end.  True, I often found myself referring to the family tree in our reunion booklet to figure out who various awesome people were that I'd been chatting with, but I still felt like I knew my family whole lot better by the time we headed for home early Monday morning.

Me and Papa

I spent a lot of time talking with my father of course, but in addition many of my favorite memories of that weekend revolved around--you guessed it...my cousins--first cousins of course but also the grandchildren of my grandfather's seven siblings.  One Sabbath morning we ate the complimentary hotel breakfast in the downstairs common area and noticed a couple of vaguely familiar looking faces.  It turned out to be my cousin Jennifer (my great-uncle Harold's granddaughter) and her family.  Her son Josh would be the first of several fast friends Elijah would make over the weekend.  Then walking back to my hotel room after the family had gone up, I heard the exited voices of children emanating from our end of the hall.  I groaned inwardly that my boys were likely getting loud and disturbing the other guests.  Imagine my relief (that it wasn't my wild ones for once) and pleasant surprise that my cousin Denny had the room right next door to ours.  Elijah and Ezra would quickly bond with his two children and they were practically inseparable the rest of the weekend.  The boys--especially Elijah--were in heaven all weekend.  I think they were amazed that so many people were their family.  Elijah went around with a notebook throughout the weekend asking people to write their names, addresses, and phone numbers. And it touched my heart to hear him address my father as "Grandpa" without a second thought.

Elijah with cousins Josh and Ras on Sabbath

Elijah with his cousins on Sunday.  He had such a blast!

Other great memories included, chatting with cousin Melanie before the Sabbath afternoon potluck, sharing a lane with my cousin Adam, his wife Khadja and their little girls at the reunion bowling event Saturday night; hanging out in the hotel lobby post-bowling talking with cousins Joe, Andy, Denny, Tim, and others until two in the  morning; talking to Jason and Tiffany and Ethan at the reunion BBQ on Sunday.

We had originally planned to leave sometime Sunday afternoon and get back to Ohio late Sunday night.  But I was exhausted from staying up late Saturday night and I dreaded the thought of the long drive on so little sleep.  Plus the party was still going strong and I found I wasn't really ready to leave just yet.  But we only had the hotel for two nights and I didn't have the budget to extend for a third night. But before I could even ask, Tim Byrd (grandson of my great-aunt Mary)--as soon as he heard me say we'd be leaving Sunday afternoon-- was already offering. .. nay insisting that we stay at his mom Lolita's condo right around the corner.  We took him up on his and his mother's offer and headed their way after the BBQ wrapped up.  The boys swam in the pool, Babs took a nap, and I spent time getting to know still more family.  It was a little surreal to be meeting all these great new people--nice folks, you know and then have the realization hit you that these weren't just nice folks--these fast friends were my family, my actual flesh and blood relatives!

Cousin Tim and his wife at the Sabbath afternoon potluck, July 1, 2017

The weekend wrapped up on a high note, a joyful celebration at my Uncle Antoine and Aunt Connie's place on Sunday night. I talked to Papa for hours while the kids ran under the stars and cousin Jason's fireworks display.  It was perfect.  An evening of conversation, laughter, and good feeling among friends who had I had finally come to appreciate as family.

Aunt Connie and Uncle Antoine, my father's younger brother

At Aunt Connie and Uncle Antione's house, Sunday night, July 2, 2017

Our family is just like any family.  There's a dark side too.  Terrible tragedies, divorces, family drama.  Like most families there is a legacy of pain.  I know how that legacy touches me personally, but I'm sure there is much I don't know.  But that's okay.  I'm still grateful to have the chance even this late in life to get to know the Maycock side of my family.  I was blessed by the welcoming heart of every person I met all the way from Grandmother and Aunt Audrey  (who at 98 is the last surviving sibling of my grandfather and thus is the oldest living Maycock) down to the new batch of cousins my boys befriended.  I am grateful.

Cousins: My father's genreation

Cousins: My son's generation