The girls and I are singing “On the Road Again” en route to Florida for two reasons: (1) a second visit to seven week old Micah, 20 month old Skylar and their parents, and (2) a few days on Sanibel Island with Mary and Bervin. Their two youngest girls and ours will revel in exploring the island on rented scooters, as well as spending refreshing time on the shelly beach.

As for me, a Cyclops-lookalike with a colorful goose-egg, I’ll be on the screened porch waiting for my battered face to quit oozing. The doctor said, “No sun for you, unless you want half of your face to absorb an extra amount of ultraviolet rays and become permanently stained.” I already look like Two-face, the deformed villain in Batman’s “Dark Knight” and don’t need that.

As we packed and loaded up this morning, doing all those last-minute chores before departure, I realized anew why my widow warrior friends have told me they like to stay home. After walking through months of unknowns getting used to widowhood, these women are tentatively holding onto shreds of a new routine when suddenly it’s time to break stride and leave on a trip, yet another unknown.

In addition, widows like to pass their days where their husband used to be and sleep where he used to sleep, maybe even in his t-shirt. Going too far away for too long becomes tense and unsettling, causing mourning to be set aside for a few days, which elongates the process. It’s always waiting upon return.

Despite these stresses, the girls and I are looking forward to a dose of tropical weather after this sad, snowy winter, and my broken toe will be happier in flip flops than in shoes. Once again my magnanimous sister and husband are providing for us in a special way, offering bedrooms at a restful resort, urging us to come. Without them, we wouldn’t go.

Our road trip was interesting today. I’ve learned what it feels like to be the object of gawkers. “Don’t stare,” one mom told her little girl as we waited in line for the gas station bathroom. Most are sure I’ve been battered by an angry man and show compassion. One woman saw my face and lovingly said, “Oh honey, let me help you into the store,” rushing back to open the door before I got there. She had all she could do not to embrace me. When I saw another little girl with a scab on her face staring at me, I smiled and said, “You don’t look as bad as I do,” but she turned and ran.

Louisa did all the driving without complaint, and the girls walked the dogs as needed. Compared to traveling with little children, we had it easy. I just hope when we connect with Skylar tomorrow afternoon she doesn’t take one look at Grandma Midgee and go screaming to her daddy in terror!
”The Lord, before whom I have walked, will send his angel with you and make your journey a success,” (Genesis 24:40a)

Today started out exceptionally well. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and I decided to take the dogs to the beach early. I’ve been babysitting for Jack’s cousin-dog, Sydney, for a couple of weeks. The two of them work like a team of miniature ponies, each appreciating the other.

I rode my bike while the dogs ran enthusiastically through nearby trees and dunes. Fifty white seagulls were a springy surprise at the beach, since we hadn’t seen them since last fall. The dogs dutifully cleared the area, chasing them into the sky.

Although the sand was like concrete after temps in the 20’s last night, the scene was striking, each rock sparkling with a thin layer of ice. But all three of us were wearing heavy coats and spent an hour walking the water line, appreciating the visual feast of wild waves and glistening dunes. I filled a Zip-Loc with spectacular stones but wondered how I’d get them home on my bike.

Each day as we fly down the road toward home on the back side of a dune, the dogs cooperate with biking etiquette, running parallel with each other and me. But today, as we were speeding downhill at a fast clip, Jack suddenly broke stride and made a sharp turn in front of my bike without warning. Our collision stopped the bike cold and tangled me in the front wheel as the bike and I tumbled down the hill to a stop.

In that split second before my face hit the pavement, all I could think of was my bag of rocks perched on the handlebars, hoping I wouldn’t lose them. Looking up, I saw the dogs racing side-by-side as always, chasing the reason for Jac’s abrupt turn, a red-tailed squirrel.

I sat up on the pavement to assess the damage, which didn’t seem too bad. But the rock-baggie had split, scattering my treasures everywhere. As I was debating what to do about it, I saw my cheek begin to get in the way of my vision, and blood was dripping on my coat. Thankfully I had two tissues in my coat pocket and used them while riding the rest of the way home.

As today’s hours have passed, my body has “described” to me exactly what happened, yelling about two toes, three fingers, two knees, four teeth, one back and my prize-fighter face. Finally, at Mary’s urging, I agreed to go to the emergency room. Compassionate next door neighbors donated six hours to the cause, chauffeuring me to the hospital and bringing me back home afterwards, along with three prescriptions, a water bottle and a warm blanket.

After arriving home with a broken toe, torn tissue around one knee and a “developing” face, my mind was flooded with reasons to be grateful. Despite an eye full of sand and gravel, my eyeball wasn’t cut. I’m also glad Jack wasn’t hurt and that my bike still works. I’m grateful my neighbors were home and willing to give so generously of themselves, and I’m thankful Nate didn’t see this face. If he had,a lecture would have been forthcoming for sure.

Jack, Sydney and I were planning to load the Highlander and head for Chicago to spend tonight with Louisa and Birgitta before the five of us began another road trip to Florida early tomorrow. But with only one eye looking through the windshield, I decided the girls should come to me instead. I’m thankful to have capable drivers willing to clock the 1400 miles to our destination while I chill out doing other things in the back seat. As for my rocks, I’ll go back in the morning to gather them up.

Today I’d had the perfect Plan A with a well-ordered to-do list, but God had pre-arranged a Plan B. And in his plan, I found many reasons to be thankful.

“The Lord will work out his plans for my life—for your faithful love, O Lord, endures forever.” (Psalm 138:8)

Living here in my Michigan cottage, I’ve been thinking about the many friends I still have in the Chicago area. I’ve also thought back on one friendship that traveled a very bumpy road.

This person who I knew for decades and loved deeply hurt me by something she did, taking advantage of our relationship in a way she didn’t see as a problem. To me it was cruel, but she never saw it that way, even when I confronted her.

The problem grew, however, in that this offense began to dominate my thinking, every single day. No matter how I tried, including repeated efforts to hand it over to the Lord, I couldn’t get rid of it. It was like someone had strapped a lead-filled back pack on me, insisting I carry it every waking moment.

One day I was complaining to another friend about the mess, defending my anger and my position as the victim. She’d heard my speech one too many times and finally asked, “What exactly would you like to happen, best case scenario?”

I was ready with an answer. “I want her to feel the hurt exactly like I do, so she’ll be sorry.”

It shocked and disappointed me when my friend shook her head and said, “She never will.”

I argued my position, but she stuck with her opinion. “You’ll have to give up wishing for that, or you’ll live the rest of your life hoping for something you’ll never get.”

I had a different scenario in mind. First, she would feel terrible and, with tears, would ask my forgiveness. Second, our friendship would be restored. Third, I’d be able to release my feelings of hostility and get closure.

After struggling for seven months, I realized my “friend” probably wasn’t thinking about the offense at all. And my other friend’s prediction was coming true: I was hoping for something I’d probably never get, and the striving was eating me up.

Why did I want this woman to feel the same pain I did? I guess I thought it would be a type of shared suffering, that if she felt badly too, I would only feel half as bad. It started to dawn on me, though, that even if she shared my misery, it wouldn’t have been enough.

Eventually I did find help. It came through two statements made by Pastor Colin Smith in a sermon:

1. God feels what you’re feeling.
2. Jesus went to the cross for the sin that caused your pain.

Once I realized God had been watching on the day she wounded me and genuinely felt the extent of my pain, it was as if someone lifted the heavy back pack from my shoulders. I also realized that because Jesus was tortured and killed for sin, he would deal with my offender personally and didn’t need my help.

These two truths were so freeing, it wasn’t long before I found myself moving back toward this woman, without resentment or anger. My get-even mentality had completely disappeared, along with its heaviness.

Seventeen years have gone by since the hurtful incident occurred. I’m still friends with this woman, and occasionally I think about it but without struggle or bitterness. If anything, I have greater appreciation for God’s power to affect change from the inside out, simply by showing me who he is. He’s a personal friend willing to share in our suffering, and he’ll insure justice in the end.

Although his “Rules for Relationships” often go against human logic, they work remarkably well. And in missing my Chicago friends, I am missing that friend, too.

”If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” (Romans 12:18)