As Birgitta and I entered the cottage under the weight of our traveling burdens tonight, I set mine down near the fireplace. My eyes fell on Nate’s wooden cane in the corner there, standing just where he left it nearly six months ago. Although Hospice had provided a wheeled walker and a wheelchair for his use and safety, he preferred the cane.

I remember the day Nate received that cane from the University of Illinois in the fall of 1969, when he was a second year law student. My memory is muddy as to the reason some of the students got canes and white straw hats to go with them, but the day he brought them home to our little apartment, his mood was upbeat and silly.

The two of us had fun with his cane and hat that night, laughing at each other as we attempted stunts and dressed up to snap photos. (Poverty stricken grad students have to find fun wherever they can.)

Tonight the cane represented something entirely different: cancer and weakness. As the days of last October went by, Nate’s ability to support his own weight waned, and he needed assistance to walk and stand. Even then, he pushed himself to take short trips outdoors, several each day. When he first started using the cane, he felt fresh confidence and refused other assistance. But gradually he needed a hand, then two helpers, one on each side, and finally couldn’t continue at all.

Despite the difficulties of these walks, they offered several things to Nate. The weather last fall was spectacular, and the entire neighborhood glowed gold with its backdrop of yellow maples. The exercise did Nate good, helping to keep him relaxed with so much lazy-boy time and no other outlet for his nervous energy. And it was a sweet time of conversation and companionship for whomever was assisting him.

Several of us went on his last walk, which occurred four days before he died. We slowly walked down our narrow lane to the corner, and I was the one holding his hand. He gripped the cane in his other hand and tapped acorns along the way, sometimes using it to bang them open with a sharp blow. We came to the turn in the road, and I suggested we go back, since he was getting wobbly. “We’re not quite at the end yet,” he said. “I’ll tell you when.”

We paced four more steps to a crack that ran across the asphalt. “There,” he said. “Now we turn around.” He wanted to do it “all the way,” just as he’d done before. I had to admire that spunk.

His cane, now resting in the corner gathering dust, was put to good use, both in 1969 and 2009. Once in a while we all need to lean on something when we’re feeling weak. When a hand isn’t enough, we need a cane. When that, too, is insufficient, we climb in a wheelchair, and after that, a bed. And in the end, when nothing at all but weakness remains, we lean, at long last, on God alone.

“Even to your old age I am He, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save.” (Isaiah 46:4)

Being a good traveler takes know-how, and I don’t have it. My clothes wrinkle in the suitcase. My purse always gains weight. And I’m continually hunting for items I can’t find. Room keys don’t work smoothly, and fast food starts to taste bad. Road trips often include getting lost, and climbing into a different bed every night is like playing sleep-roulette. I admire people who can travel well.

The founder of Youth with a Mission, Loren Cunningham, has traveled the globe on a continual basis for five decades. He and his wife Darlene, now in their seventies, are enthusiastically celebrating YWAM’s 50^th anniversary by moving in and out of more than fifty countries in 2010, staying a while in each place. And they’re labeling this a “celebration”?

I’m awed by the biblical story of Abram who was told (by God) to leave his home and all things familiar for points unknown. He didn’t resist this challenging assignment even though no specific trip destination was given him. Without complaining, he became a full-time nomad, living in tents and in turmoil, without being able to return home even once throughout the rest of his life, an amazing sacrifice.

A few of the phrases from Genesis 12 are: “So Abram left… He set out… Abram traveled… From there he went on… Then Abram set out and continued… And Abram went…”

That’s just one chapter’s activity for this travelin’ man. Imagine the packing, unpacking and repacking! He had to remember everything from camel food to a water supply. How did he do it?

My Aunt Joyce was a spectacular traveler into her nineties, rolling her clothes and packing her suitcase to look like so many rows of wrinkle-free sausages. She took only what she needed, carefully coordinating outfits and accessories to minimize bulk. If she bought souvenirs, they were always small and easy to pack. I never saw her rummaging through her things in search of something the way I continually am. And Aunt Joyce slipped in and out of time zones as effortlessly as she tried on new outfits. Although I’ve tried to emulate her, I’ve never succeeded.

I love the old gospel song that says:

“This world is not my home. I’m just a-passin’ through.
My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue.
The angels beckon me from heaven’s open door;
And I can’t feel at home in this world anymore.”

When I get frustrated with my poor travel skills, I’m soothed to think one day all travel as we know it will cease. My tattered suitcases won’t be needed. We’ll be home for good, living in an environment of perfection, absent of all need, especially the need to go anyplace. Sounds pretty good to me.

In the mean time, I forgot to pack socks and will have to wear sandals tomorrow, despite cold temperatures and predicted rain. Once I get back to Michigan, I’ll unpack, then repack to fly to England to meet our precious newborn twins. No doubt I’ll remember the baby outfits and maybe even my socks this time.

Although I’m fairly sure I won’t need to pack the camel food, what else will I forget?

“The Lord said to Abram, ‘Leave your country, your people and your father’s household and go…’ Abram was seventy-five years old when he set out.” (Genesis 12:1&4)

It was 1963 when I began hunting for a college. The process wasn’t especially complicated 47 years ago, and I applied to three schools. Rejected by one, accepted by another and given a conditional acceptance by the third (a “yes” but I’d have to live at home), the choice was easy.

Tonight Birgitta and I are bunking on the fourth floor of the massive student union building at the University of Iowa and are scheduled for a campus tour at 8:00 AM. I attended a college with 2500 students; this university has 30,000. My school had girl-dorms and guy-dorms; this school has only co-ed housing. My college had a 10:00 PM curfew on week nights; this school keeps buildings open all night. My college covered several square blocks; this one covers several square miles. And I’m nervous.

But Birgitta is a girl who sets goals and reaches for them. She’s done diligent research, knows what she wants to study, has defined a desire to attend a big school, has applied to five universities and has been accepted by three so far. The world is opening to her, and she’s eager to walk into it while carefully considering later consequences to the decisions she’s making today.

Tonight we both missed Nate to the point of tears, knowing this was his kind of project. He would have had particular interest in the University of Iowa, because he spent one of his high school summers on this campus in an accelerated program for debaters. Had he been with us, wandering the campus this afternoon might have prompted life stories we may not have heard before. When I tried to encourage us both by suggesting Nate might know of Birgitta’s acceptance and our trip to Iowa she said, “Yes, but we can’t get his feedback.”

Well put. And we long for that which we can’t have.

But we’re trying to do our best without him, to ask the right questions and accurately retain the answers.

Birgitta is 19, living within the most critical decade of her life. It’s a difficult time to be without a dad. Between the ages of 17 and 27, the majority of American young people will make the eight most important decisions of their lives, setting the trajectory for all the years to follow:

1. whether or not to attend college and if so, which one
2. whether or not religious faith will matter and if so, faith in what or who
3. what type of friends to choose
4. what to do about addictive substances, smoking, drinking, etc.
5. what career to prepare for and the first “real” job
6. whether or not to marry, and if so, who
7. where to live and begin putting down roots
8. whether or not to have children

Talk about pressure.

Birgitta wants to be proactive about life rather than letting life just happen to her, and she knows choosing a university is her springboard. But she’ll have to find a balance between being diligent in decisions she can control and planning a future she can’t. Landing on that sweet spot in the middle is a venture even seasoned adults find difficult. But though she misses the advice her earthly father would have given her, something tells me Birgitta will do alright, because she knows how to access the counsel of her heavenly Father.

“Be wise… Make the most of every opportunity.” (Colossians 4:5)