Wanderlust has pulsed in my inner life, leading me to reach for new places and experiences, since at least the third grade. That’s the first clear memory I have of the euphoria of anticipating a trip. My aunt and uncle had invited me to join them and my younger cousin for a weeklong visit to southern California.

Southern California. I remember naming the place as if it were exotic, telling anyone who would listen about this fantastical locale I would be visiting. A place of beaches and the world renowned San Diego Zoo. A place, in fact, only seven hours away by car down I-5, but seven hours is an approximation of eternity for an eight-year-old.

With each new year of my life the longing to be away has lingered. In high school half the fun of youth group was going away to camp or leaving the country for the first time on a short term missions trip. I fantasized about going away to college, which would turn out to be for naught. Instead I honeymooned with my husband, deeply in love with him and the moonlight we shared over the Pacific. In the midst of childbearing years, overwhelmed by the necessary but often stifling grip of my place, I marked time by our family trips to Disneyland. Each new year as I survey our calendar, travel is still at the forefront of my mind; where will this year take us?

This longing has made home a complicated concept for me. Home is the place I’m always leaving behind…

To read the rest, visit my friend Jen Pollock Michel‘s blog: http://jenpollockmichel.com/2017/02/10/birdtree-street-vacaville-california-guest-post-by-aleah-marsden/ Hers is one of my favorite spaces on the internet, so be sure to check out some other posts in her Home series and sign up for her excellent “monthly-ish” newsletter: Miscellany. 

After I graduated high school I did a brief stint of community college. I decided to major in “Liberal Studies” because I figured all I needed was general education/transferable credits anyway. One of the required classes on this vague track was statistics.

Now typically, I do words not numbers, you know? But I had always done well in school. Learning came easy. I wasn’t the top of my class, but I was closer to the top than not. I never started a project prior to the weekend before it was due. Never studied unless I was cramming for a specific test the following day. Comprehensive finals-type tests I didn’t study for at all. Too much work! I figured if I didn’t understand the material by then I probably wouldn’t ever understand it. I pulled mostly A’s and B’s, so it never occurred to me that there was anything lacking in my methodology.

Enter community college statistics.

The first half of the semester was breezy. I’d come in late with a latte, skip the optional homework, and still do well on the tests. Friends invited me to join their study group and I halfheartedly showed up for a couple meetings. As someone who got it, I felt a certain sense of responsibility for the poor people who just didn’t get it. Bless their hearts.

Then the second half of the semester happened. With painful clarity I realized I had reached my math threshold. Nothing made sense anymore. It was (literally) Greek to me.

So what did I do? Double down and dig deep? Lean into the study group I had deigned to join? Spend countless hours in the math lab taking advantage of free tutoring resources?

Nope.

I quit going to class. My attitude was such that if I couldn’t understand it, then it was obviously stupid. Statistics was the problem, not me. I mean, my methods had carried me this far with decent results. I couldn’t possibly be the problem. Anyway, I do words not numbers.

I showed up for the final. I don’t even know why I went. I slammed through the first half of it, and then left most of the second half blank. I was the first to leave, and I felt the daggers shot in my back by the eyes of my long-abandoned study group.

Guess what? I failed. Shocking, I know.

Apparently in math, if statistics can even be called that, getting 100% on the first half of your final and 0% on the second half averages you out to a big fat F. I don’t know, like I said statistics wasn’t exactly my thing. I ended up with a D in the class. In my entire, albeit short (Hello, Marsden babies!), stint with higher education it was the only class I didn’t pass.

I rode the Easy Street trolley to the end of the line. My natural ability got me to where the sidewalk ends and when I reached it, I stopped.

This is where I find myself once again in 2017: at the end of the pavement staring out at the wilderness of not knowing how to do the thing I need to do. I’m not even sure where to start. Starting is so hard. The pavement behind calls to me. It whispers sweet things to draw me back to the comfort of feeling confident and capable. You are perfect just as you are. This is just your personality; you’re an enneagram Five who prefers to live in her head. You don’t have to strive. You don’t have to stress. You don’t have to try. Just be content in being here. All is grace.

Damn this convincing concrete! It keeps my feet planted with no allowance for roots. These gnarled roots of mine seek deeper things, continue to push at the pavement, twisting over myself trying to tap a source beneath practical platitudes.

I can grow no taller here.

Here where I’m mixing my metaphors of trolleys and trees. Or maybe I’m not. Aren’t we all walking trees? Deeply rooted and ever called-out to follow beyond the brink of the known, believing there is something worth pursuing.

Like a star. Like Epiphany. Like the three wise men who gathered their collected wisdom and their understanding drove them into the wilderness in hot pursuit of celestial satisfaction. If these Fives can strike out in search of kingdom-come, surely my boots can inch away from this crumbling concrete. I, who live my life in the presence of the One they sought. They brought Him gifts fit for royalty and He gave everything for me. Even I can grasp this simple math: I am gratuitously provided for.

The end of the line is the end of me.

I’ve been told the end of me is the beginning of Him.

That’s just another Instagram meme of a statement, though. It’s meant to make me less insecure, but He’s just as with me now and He was at the beginning and He is in the middle. There is no space without Immanuel; God with us. I’ve been balancing on the edge waiting for Him to “show up big.” Maybe He’s been here with me all along waiting for me to do the same. Dallas Willard taught me that grace is opposed to earning, not effort. I’ve never been much of a doer. I’m more of a don’t-er, an observer.

2016 had me watching from a safe distance, but 2017 calls to me: Come.

Come, everyone who thirsts,
come to the waters;
and he who has no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without price.
Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread,
and your labor for that which does not satisfy?
Listen diligently to me, and eat what is good,
and delight yourselves in rich food.
Incline your ear, and come to me;
hear, that your soul may live;
and I will make with you an everlasting covenant,
my steadfast, sure love for David.

—Isaiah 55:1-3

He says not to labor for things that don’t satisfy, but in saying so doesn’t he imply that there is labor required for things that do satisfy? Aslan is on the move. And so am I.

The last final I took at community college was for an elective I had chosen: Early British Literature. For the essay portion of the exam I wrote a stuffy piece with a supercilious title. I don’t remember much about it except that the professor told me it was well written, but didn’t add much to the conversation. I didn’t get what she meant. I gave her all the right answers, regurgitated and spliced her lectures together into something I figured was “academic.” Looking back, I wonder if she meant I was the missing thing. I told her what I thought she wanted to hear, but maybe what she wanted was to hear from me.

I remember walking out of that dusty classroom, tucked down a dark corner hallway in the English department, and stepping blinking out into bright California sunlight. Exultant with the freedom of summer I inwardly exclaim, “Thank God that was the last essay I’ll ever have to write!”

So, my super-talented woodworker husband makes these GORGEOUS clocks. Each clock is handmade and stained in our garage-turned-workshop and measures 19″ in diameter. They retail for $100.

Our friend Becky is climbing Kilimanjaro with a team of women to help raise money to finish the Dream Medical Center that Africa New Life Ministries is building in Rwanda. More about that here: http://www.africanewlife.org/ministries/medical-clinic/

Where do you come in? For every donation of $10, you’re entered to win the handmade “Winter” clock pictured above. You can donate through the widget below, just make sure you come back to this page and click “Enter” after donating. **NOTE: Be sure to click the PayPal link before you click the enter button. Thanks!**

a Rafflecopter giveaway

We’ll take the cost of shipping out of the final amount. Only open to residents of the contiguous United States. Giveaway closes Wednesday, November 30th at 11:59p. Winner announced here on the blog Thursday, December 1st. Good luck! We’re excited to support Becky and the good work Africa New Life continues to accomplish in Rwanda. Thanks so much for your support!

I am struck by the irony that the event which has finally pushed me to step out of the long, overgrown shadows in this space is the news of a dearly beloved publication stepping into its twilight.

Books & Culture will always have a sentimental significance to me. My first published words appeared there. I’m choking up remembering.

The story goes…

Once upon a time in the Twitterverse, a guy with generic name, no profile blurb, and only books for a profile picture retweeted a blog post I wrote about my tenth anniversary. I had no idea who he was, but thanked him for sharing and moved on with my life.

Some time later, after writing a tweet gushing over Jen Pollock Michel’s Teach Us To Want, this same guy tweeted asking if I would be interested in writing a review of it for Books & Culture.

Who was this booked man?

I googled.

Jaw-drop.

I reread the tweet.

I re-reread the tweet.

I sent a screenshot of the tweet to multiple writer-friends asking, “Do you think he’s asking me to review for B&C?! Or, is he just asking if the book should be reviewed for B&C?”

I timidly and roundabout-ly message John.

And I land my first paid, published piece.

I have to be careful not to prematurely eulogize John here. He is alive and (I hope) well(ish), considering, and is much more than this wonderful publication which was entrusted to his care. I don’t pretend to know him well, or at least as well as anyone I’ve had the pleasure of conversation and coffee with a couple times. And yet, there is something of John which is Books & Culture.

In trying to pinpoint the overlap of the two for me, I think I’ve landed that it is in the sense of seeing where each excel. As a complete unknown, I felt seen by John; who was I to be published among academics? But this sense of seeing always ran over into the newsprint pages. B&C is (I have replaced “was” because it’s just too soon and I’m not ready yet)… It is a collection of seers curated by curiosity. Here, next to my morning tea, I have read about books that I wanted to read and books I wanted to read because I read about them in Books & Culture. I read about topics that interested me and topics that never would have interested me until reading them in Books & Culture. I will miss the opportunity to steep with my tea in the magic of words penned by writers well-matched with books.

Again, the sense of seeing involved in matching a writer and a book tugs at me.

I remember being halfway through a novel John had given me to review and wondering how he had pegged me. Somehow this was the exact story I needed in this season. I would have blushed at the vulnerable, transparent feeling–am I that obvious?–but even then I knew it was that John’s gift was that precise and special. And I felt blessed to have witnessed it firsthand.

I count myself among the many hoping and praying for a Lazarus-esque resurrection. Lord, if only you would call it out! B&C has been part of calling me out to new thinking, and waking up my brain to lead me into my quiet time for a while now. This seems fitting as reading has led me to worship most of my life. I expect many readers who enjoyed Books & Culture could say the same.

With greatest affection for B&C (and sincerest thanks, John),

–Aleah

Wheaton, Illinois is a postcard-worthy place. I’ve visited the friend that we’re staying with a few times before–using the biennial Redbud Writers retreat as an excuse to come early and explore. Kathy is always a gracious hostess, being sure to include stops she knows I would enjoy: a trip to the Wade Center where I saw C.S. Lewis’ writing desk or a visit to the Wheaton College library to see Madeleine L’Engle’s handwritten notes in the archives. This visit was no different in Kathy’s attentiveness, but with plans adjusted accordingly to it being my whole crew instead of only me. No need for quiet museums or archived stacks, today we walk a couple blocks in glorious sunshine to play on a giant trampoline with her granddaughters and then go out for deep dish pizza. Perfection.

During dinner I ask Kathy and her daughter Mindy to help me figure out a touring plan for tackling Chicago the next day. It’s so unlike me to not have this sort of research completed by now, but this trip has too many variables to account for all of them. I’ve found it better to talk to the locals whenever possible. Truth be told, I’m a bit anxious about having to use public transit. I’ve never taken a train before, let alone with four kids. Mike has limited experience. I listen intently as they tell me the best stops and must-sees.

The next morning, still full from breakfast, Kathy walks us to the train station and gives us specific instructions on purchasing our tickets. I’m especially grateful for the tidbit about where to put your tickets when you’re sitting on the second level of the train. I hate looking like a clueless tourist. When we all climb up there I lean forward and slip the paper tickets under the small metal tab. Walter is in obvious awe of the uniformed conductor and watches intently as he punches our tickets; Walt hands his faux child-under-six ticket to him and he punches it into a smiley face mirroring Walt’s wide grin.

After an hour we arrive in Chicago, hustled onto the platform in the large station, trying to keep track of the kids in the bustle. After the brainstorming session with Kathy and Mindy over pizza the previous night, we’ve decided to attempt to save the kids’ energy by using Uber, rather than walk the twenty minutes from Ogilvie Transportation Center to Millennium Park. Another first for Mike and I both. While getting into a complete stranger’s car feels contrary to everything my mother ever taught me, UberXL (we need larger cars for our crew) ends up being easy and surprisingly affordable. Chicago is gorgeous and the weather is apparently showing off for us Californians. I careen my neck to try to glimpse the tall stone buildings rising around us like a forest out the window.

At Millennium Park we follow the streams of tourists to The Bean. I don’t know why there is a giant metallic bean or what it has to do with Chicago, but we have fun making faces into it’s mirrored surface and viewing the infinite images underneath. Next, we happen upon a modern art fountain on our way to Buckingham Fountain. The kids strip off their shoes and socks and roll up their jeans, which almost keeps them from getting completely soaked as they splash across the water’s glossy surface.

Shoes back on, and Walt is lagging behind as we walk through the city. I can never tell if he’s actually tired of walking or is succumbing to boredom. Fortunately, his energy spikes with the rest of the kids’ excitement upon seeing the enormous Buckingham Fountain. The water sprays dozens of feet into the air and is whipped across the esplanade by the wind. I puzzle over who would put a giant fountain here in “the windy city.”

We can’t stop commenting on the vastness of great Lake Michigan across the street. “It looks like an ocean!” “You can’t even see the other side!” “There’s just no way that’s fresh water!” We cross at the crosswalk and sit with our legs dangling over the fresh, sky blue waters and eat a snack. I try not to panic when Lucy drops her goldfish bag and leans down toward the water to grab it. I fail, and shout a little too loudly to, “Hold still!” My kids look at me like the safety-freak this vacation is teaching me that I am. I grab the bag off the concrete step separating us from the deep water and make everyone scoot back a foot.

I summon another UberXL, not realizing there is nowhere for the driver to stop to get us. We cross the street to a slightly wider muddy shoulder and throw the kids into the minivan when it pulls up.

Next stop: The Museum of Science and Industry.

We shut. this. place. down. Even after four hours of exploring and playing with all the interactive exhibits, we still hadn’t made it to the top floor. We run up the stairs and try to take in as much as we can while polite-but-firm docents announce repeatedly that the museum is now CLOSED.

Now pretty much pros, we UberXL back to Ogilvie Transportation Center. There is one express train which leaves around 5p, skipping all the stops we waited through on the way out and only taking a half hour to get to Wheaton. I am determined to make this train. Upon entering the station, we realize that tourists are in the minority here as it’s obviously rush hour. We find the correct platform and walk further and further down the train only to see car after car packed to capacity. It would be difficult to find seating for a single, and we’re looking for space for six! We climb aboard and continue to walk single-file down aisle after aisle. Eventually we come to a car with one available bench seat. Mike squeezes the four kids onto the bench and sits next to a woman across the aisle. I sit next to a gentleman behind him and sigh with relief. I fish our tickets out of my jacket pocket and place them in the clip. Like. A. Boss.

Back at Kathy’s we’re spoiled with a rib-sticking home-cooked meal of crock-pot tender roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh baked bread, and green beans. Mike and I had skipped the awful, overpriced food court pizza at the museum and dig into the delicious dinner with vigor. This quaint home has become one of my happy places, always overflowing with stimulating conversation and hospitality. I sip my tea after dinner sleepy and deeply content.

Next morning I’m up early to sneak away for a couple hours to have coffee with some local Redbud writers–board members, actually. Time passes entirely too quickly–as it is apt to do when I’m immersed in friendship and caffeine and conversation–and it’s too soon time to leave. I catch a ride back to Kathy’s where the kids are just finishing the homemade cinnamon rolls they got to help make for breakfast. We thank Kathy for her warm hospitality and the gift of having a place at her table.

And the Marsden Expedition rolls on.

I’ll take a large Chicago vlog, please: (insert image of me laughing hysterically)

Some of Wheaton also on Day 16: https://youtu.be/fkZj7_kOdzY and Day 18: https://youtu.be/G4slqa9Midk

We don’t have turnpikes in California, only toll bridges. Imagine my surprise as I’m cruising down the interstate in the middle of the night somewhere in Pennsylvania, suddenly stopped at an electronic booth and told to take a paper ticket. I’m not exactly sure what to do with the ticket, but I stuff it in the center console for safekeeping. Mike and the kids are all sleeping. An hour, or less or more, later I come to another booth where the attendant asks for my aforementioned ticket. I give it to her and explain that we’re from out of town. She smiles and asks me for $35. Thirty. Five. Dollars. CASH. Who carries that kind of cash anymore?! Is Pennsylvania full of drug dealers and restaurant servers?

Fortunately, there is a safeguard built into this archaic system for clueless outsiders like me with a seven day grace period where you can pay fees online. I have to ask for this grace at the next turnpike as well. The following turnpikes accept credit cards, as they should since the trip from Virginia to Indiana ends up costing us over $60.

Indiana is flat, but green. The neighborhood our friends live in is a row of well-manicured homes on large lots. I dock the Mars(den) Rover in the driveway. I get out and hug our friends, the Brummel’s, then climb back into the RV to freshen up while Mike and the kids go in the house.

I join the grownups at the kitchen table a little later, gratefully accepting a warm mug of coffee as we all catch up. Mike and Suzanne were youth leaders at the church we attend when Mike and I were in high school. We laugh about all that has changed as time has passed. Mike and I answer questions about how’s so-and-so from church, and ask them about their recently married daughter we knew as a little kid.

“Have you ever had Amish donuts?”

I don’t remember if it was Mike or Suzanne who asked this question, but I was all-in for wherever this was about to take us.

“We can have [our grown kids] watch your kids and we could go get some?”

All the YES.

We four adults climb into the Brummel’s minivan and head out to Shipshewana, Indiana: Amish country. We buy delicious donuts. Mike and I also buy smoked sausage bread and a jar of a dessert-worthy peanut butter-marshmallow fluff mixture. We drive slowly behind a black horse-drawn buggy on our way to a cheese factory (where we buy a small block of tangy sharp white cheddar). I’m amused at the honey shop that it looks closed, because: no electricity. I’ve always been fascinated by other cultures and this was no exception. I’ve practically got my face pushed up against the window and we drive (twice!) by an Amish baseball game; everyone in plain, simple clothes and dozens of bikes and buggies lining the street.

The next stop after leaving the Amish area has my Mike’s face pressed up against the glass: a fireworks warehouse. He can’t stop smiling as he fills his red plastic handbasket. Most places in California don’t allow fireworks. I remind him of this and of the drought of the last three years. He pretends not to hear me.

That evening the Brummel’s have invited us to join them at a friend’s house for dinner. The house is full of kids and friendly faces. My crew quickly scatters. This property is actually a small working farm. We see chickens, geese, roosters, dogs, cats, a bunny, and cows. One cow is swollen with pregnancy, due any day. I shudder in sympathy remembering feeling the way she looks.

Conversation is easy and the food is plentiful. I’m reminded at church with everyone the next morning of the gift of fellowship in community. During the service we sing the hymn Because He Lives. The last time I sang this was with a group of Africa New Life staff during their mid-week devotional service in Kigali, Rwanda this past February. How beautiful the Church can be, made up of brothers and sisters from across the chapel and around the world. A touchstone of welcome across cultures. I’m grateful to be a part of it.

After a lunch of butter-burgers, cheese curds, and frozen custard at Culver’s, we bid our dear friends goodbye and thank them for their generous hospitality. With a hymn in my heart, we pull back onto the road—Google map set to AVOID TOLL ROADS—for the (mercifully) short drive to Wheaton, Illinois.

At 4am after driving dark, winding, sometimes scary backroads, we pull into the driveway of Patrick and Barbara Hubbard’s home in Lynchburg, Virginia. I’m so tired my stomach hurts. Might also be all the candy I’ve eaten to stay awake. The kids have been asleep for hours. Mike and I stumble to the back of the RV and climb into bed.

My alarm goes off at 9am. I left myself no time to get ready, valuing rest above first impressions. Well, sort of first impressions. Though I’ve never met them in person before, Pat and Barbara—founders of Living Bread Ministries—and I have been emailing and meeting via Google Hangout for almost a year now. I splash some cold water on my face and run my fingers through my hair as the kids scramble to get dressed.

Kind of funny to be piling out of the RV and walking up to their front door for breakfast.

Kind of crazy to think a year ago I was tweeting about Women’s World Cup and that’s how I met Pat.

Kind of nuts that next month Barbara and I will be flying to Brazil to gather the stories of the pastors and people served by Living Bread Ministries.

Kind of amazing how God brings people together.

The Hubbard’s are gracious and the kind of hospitable that makes you feel at ease the moment you walk in. Within moments our four kids have disappeared with their two daughters, their teenage son making his appearance a bit later. We grab coffee while Barbara makes breakfast, swapping stories and laughing as if we’ve all known each other for years. These people after my own heart even got me a Mother’s Day present: a Virginia mug!

The kids make their way back into the kitchen to eat Olaf waffles and I grab seconds of bacon. The time sneaks past until I glance at my phone and realize we really need to get going—which I end up saying about three times as the conversation is just so good we all keep getting pulled in. We say our goodbyes in the front yard. As Mike backs down the driveway I’m filled with gratitude for this new friendship and the small role I get to play being a storyteller for this ministry.

We drive through winding greenery as we make our way to Fredericksburg, home of our dear friends, the Files family. Chad and Joy were stationed at the Air Force base near our home years and years ago. This was a friendship formed in the trenches of being young and having growing families. It’s not just that they would end up to have four kids about the same age as our four, it’s that we just worked. We did all kinds of life together while they lived in California: gym, preschool, date nights, pregnancies, vacations, and random what’s-in-your-fridge-just-bring-whatever weeknight dinners.

It was heartbreaking when they moved.

Over time Joy and I have come to accept that we are officially the worst long-distance friends ever. We both hate talking on the phone. We don’t prioritize text messages. We almost never talk on Facebook. Now, if something crazy comes up we check our schedules and attempt to plan a call. And yet, every six months or so we try to get together, either me out there or her flying here, and we catch up on all the life we missed in-between.

After a week on the road, and nearly a year since my last visit (and much longer for Mike and the kids), I am giddy with the anticipation of getting to spend almost a week staying with Chad and Joy and their kids. I obsessively check the map and agonize over how slow each minute ticks by.

This is by far the shortest leg of the trip, but it feels like the longest wait.

It was by far the longest stay of the trip, but it flies by the fastest.

We all just pick up where we left off; even our kids, a few of them meeting for the first time. We eat and laugh, while the kids run wild: riding bikes outside, playing dress up, venturing (with Mike) to the fort in the forest, playing video games, having water fights, watching movies, and playing with makeup. Both our youngest daughters were meeting for the first time and became instant fashionista friends. (The video of them doing their makeup in front of the camera is hilarious.) Even our fouth-children, which we came to realize is a specific distinction of character, hit it off.

One of the days we are brave and, determined to see the touristy Washington D.C. sights, we take our combined eight kids ten and under into our nation’s capitol. On that day we see the International Spy Museum, the Smithsonian Museum of American History, the White House, the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial—and then we all black-out from exhaustion.

Joy and I spend days in our yoga pants doing nothing together.

I also get to have dinner with my person, Danielle, who recently got married and also relocated—convenient, and yet not, to have two incredible friends living an hour from each other, yet our country’s width away from me.

One of the days Chad has to work, we take the kids strawberry picking and get Joy’s minivan so stuck in the mud the farmer has to pull us out with a tractor.

On our last day together, Joy’s sister and brother-in-law offer to watch all the kids so the four grownups can do one last D.C. trip and dinner together (Lord, bless these saints).

It cannot be overstated how much fun we have that day. These are the friends who will humor you by taking you to museums one of them has no interest in seeing. Friends where we have so many inside jokes from our history together we really shouldn’t be seen in public generally being fools and laughing loud as teenagers. Friends who will plan future trips with you while eating four baskets of free bread before the entrees arrive at dinner.

Friends who will pray with you in your RV and cry with you over the terrible reality of living so far apart as you say goodbye.

I can’t believe we still have a little over a week of this trip to go. I’ll be excited about that the next day. On this night, I pull the covers over my head in the bed in the back of the RV and long for the kingdom come, when we will eat and laugh and never have to say goodbye to great friends.

Lot’s of vlogs from this week, but I think Day 10 exploring DC is my favorite:

Day 11: https://youtu.be/n6BI63a9gZg   Day 12: https://youtu.be/mzqtoRH1gtY

Day 13: https://youtu.be/XH5_SsgaGcY    Day 14: Coming Soon!

I can only assume from what I see of the interstate, that most of Mississippi and Alabama is dense, lush forest. The stretch of drive to Nashville is largely unvarying; the first leg of the trip where life on the road starts to drag. We were still worn out from the previous evening spent wandering the French Quarter in New Orleans.

I call an RV campground that Mike found on Google to book our stay for the night in Nashville. One nice thing about this whole mobile sleeping arrangement is the flexibility to make decisions last minute. On the phone with the sweet southerner at The Grand Ole RV, I can’t help but smile at her warmth. I ask if it would be possible to pay for a late check out the next day. She exclaims, “Oh, darlin’ y’all don’t have to do that! Y’all might need to move out of the space if someone is going to be getting in, but y’all are more than welcome to park by the store. Y’all stay as long as you need.” Okay, maybe I’m remembering it with too many y’alls, but you get the picture. It was a little disorienting to be referred to as darlin’, but endearing none the less.

I can tell the condition of the RV is starting to wear Mike down. He keeps talking about his plans to deal with the issues on his own until we arrive in DC and can get it into the shop. At a truck stop gas station in Alabama, he walks into the truck service side and asks if they have any spill pads. The fuel line leaks every time we pump, and my husband, being the EPA-conscientious Chevron employee that he is, is trained to take precautions. The attendant offers him a handful of spill pads and Mike offers to pay for them. The guy replies, “I don’t even know how to charge you, these are our shop supply,” then after a brief pause, “So, here you go. Roll Tide!” Mike returns and tells me this and I laugh until tears come to my eyes.

Apparently we are now legitimately in the South. I think maybe Texas didn’t count. They seem to have their own thing going.

We pull into The Grand Ole RV, which I have been repeating in my faux-southern accent the entire drive. Actually, on one particularly monotonous patch of drive when I decided to take a break from listening to Lonesome Dove on Audible, I spent half an hour reading street signs in my wannabe twangy drawl. It’s well past dinner and the kids are restless. We check Uber to see if we can get into downtown Nashville, but no XL is available and to do two cars we’d be out $80 roundtrip before feeding the six of us dinner. We make the decision to take our chances with the little restaurant which is also the check in office, sundries store, library, video rental, and game stop.

A man who looked like he was dressed up as a character from Duck Dynasty holds the door open. We are flooded with the sweet sounds of live country music. I look timidly around the crowded little room, the band takes up a quarter of the floor and people are sitting at all the mismatched dining room tables filling the rest. The Duck Commander motions for us to take the other end of a large table at the front already occupied by a couple with an ice bucket of longneck beers. I shyly sidle in and apologize for taking space at their table. The woman smiles and shakes off the apology.

We order BBQ ribs, fried chicken, and macaroni and cheese for Mike and the kids. My own food arrives on a white paper plate, a BLT stacked with what must be half a pound of bacon, sweet potato casserole, and a red solo cup of icey sweet tea. I can feel the tension of a long day on the road release. Even Mike seems to have forgotten about the RV, smiling and playing rock-paper-scissors with Walter. The woman at the other end of the table croons over our kids and the waitress spoils them with brownie sundaes for dessert. I close my eyes and sway to the music.

After dinner we walk the gravel road back to the RV and proclaim, “THIS is EXACTLY what we needed!”

This euphoria lasts right until we open the door to the RV and smell noxious fumes. We end up figuring out that the battery which controls the electrical for the living space has overheated. Mike disconnects it. We climb into bed in the dark a bit wary, but warm enough.

We sleep in late—well, at least the kids made it a little past sunrise today—and prep to move to a spot by the store. After we’ve rolled our home to its next temporary location, I grab my shower stuff and make my way to the women’s bathroom. I enter and am greeted by the sight of a sweet teenager sitting on a sink with rollers in her dark hair. “Sorry, the mirrors are just too far away to do my makeup,” she explains and reaches to turn of the country music she has blasting. “No worries. Don’t turn that off on my account,” I say as I walk into a shower stall. Truth is, it was relaxing to have a hot shower with Tim McGraw and Keith Urban in the background.

After I’m cleaned up we gather the kids from the camp playground and roll out to meet friends for lunch in Nolensville. We meet at Martin’s BBQ Joint after a sketchy attempt to navigate the Mars(den) Rover through the crowded parking lot next to a little league field. Again, we are indebted to southerner who directed Mike’s driving so we wouldn’t inadvertently crush anyone. Lunch and time with our friends, missionaries back from China who have just accepted a call to a church serving the Chinese community in San Francisco, was as excellent as the food. Which is saying something because the Redneck Taco (corn pancake topped with BBQ pork, sauce, and slaw) was BOMB. I think the hushpuppies were good, but can’t really tell because Lucy eats them all off my plate before I’ve had more than a bite.

Overall, Nashville was nurturing. We needed that time to slow down. We needed time to decompress. For people to call us darlin’ and give us sweet tea and a welcome place at the table. We didn’t know how much we needed some southern hospitality until we received it. We leave lunch grateful and in awe of the transfixing beauty of a Tennessee spring day.

It’ll be another long drive through the night to Lynchburg, but we take the fullness of gratitude for having received soul care with us.

Day 7 Vlog (first day in Nashville):

To see the Day 8 vlog of us leaving Nashville visit: https://youtu.be/pvkmtxqFEwc

I woke up an hour before my alarm, irritated with my internal clock. As if leaving at 4am weren’t early enough, my body decided to wake at 3am just to be sure I don’t sleep through my alarm. We sleepwalk the kids down two flights of stairs and tuck them back in in the Mars(den) Rover. 🙂

I slept the first chunk of the drive, but when I wake and look out the window I know we’re in Louisiana by two things: street signs and swampland. No other place have I seen names like Atchafalaya or Thibodaux or Vacherie or St. John Parish. I’m also surprised to see trees growing out of the water in the swamp. I guess I thought they would be on marshy ground, not sticking up right out of the water.

We pull off the freeway into the RV park I had meticulously researched before booking. It’s becoming clear a real challenge of this RV life is getting around. I now understand why people tow small cars around, although I don’t think towing our SUV behind this thing would be an option. The French Quarter RV Village was a glorified parking lot surrounded by an eight foot concrete wall with razor wire on top. The area looked sketchy. However, it was spotlessly clean and the people were friendly. The big draw was that it is walking distance to the French Quarter.

I have a terrible sense of direction. I can barely read a map. Even with the woman at the front desk highlighting a route AND my phone set to live walking directions on Google Maps, I still manage to get all turned around. Mike isn’t much better, but he has been blessed with a greater dose of common sense, “We can’t cross here because of the giant construction site sink hole in the street. If we go down an extra block we can backtrack.” This is makes us a pretty good team, until he suggests a shortcut down Bourbon Street.

I’m not totally naïve. I understand what happens on Bourbon Street, in concept. In reality, we accidentally walk down the section of adults-only sex fetish stores. I try to avert the kids eyes, “Hey! Look at that over there! The… um… the people playing drums waaayyyyy overrrrr there!”

Lesson from the road: You can’t control your surroundings; roll with it.

We are on a mission to get beignets from Café Du Monde. When we began planning the Marsden Expedition, Emma had one request: she wanted to try the beignets that she saw on Princess and the Frog. It became clear that Café Du Monde was THE place to go. We grabbed a table inside by the doors, wiping powdered sugar off the seats before sitting: a good sign. The beignets are thick and fluffy, more dense than I had imagined. Sweet, but not overly so like the donuts we get at home. I, of course, have to pick up another mug to mark the occasion.

We haven’t even made it up the street before I realize I will crave these beignets forever.

After walking to the waterfront and looking at the steamboat on the Mississippi River, we make our way up St. Louis Street to Pierre Maspero’s for dinner. We chose this place because as we had passed by on our way to find Café Du Monde, a server handed us a menu and told us they have $7 kids’ meals. Done. Fortunately, it turned out they also have good eats. My friend Karina met us there.

Karina and I have been friends for years now. We met on Twitter—it is possibly one of my spiritual gifts to meet awesome people on Twitter—and we hung out at IF:Gathering in ATX a couple years ago. She’s also a writer, and also knows me well enough to have brought me a mug as a gift. This puts me at 5 days of travel and 6 mugs.

I imagine I am becoming the crazy cat lady except with coffee mugs. Someday my kids will complain about my mug-hoarding and I will swear to them I have memories attached to one. Because I do. It is a delight to choose a mug in the morning. Both for the physical practicality of holding my hot beverage of choice (I’m in a tea phase right now) and the emotional satisfaction of also sipping the memory stored in the mug.

After a delicious dinner (I had the Crescent City Sampler: gumbo, jambalaya, and crawfish etouffee. BOMB.), we walk the noisy streets to a candy shop. While we were in Texas my father-in-law had organized a treasure hunt for the kids with gold Sacagawea dollar coins as the booty. They’ve been burning holes in their pockets since. Any guesses how long it takes four kids to spend five dollars each at a candy store? F O R E V E R. Well, depending on the kid and their understanding of money. Walter saw candy Legos and was sold. He was even excited about getting change back: “The lady gave me more money!” The older kids are not so easily swayed. They agonize over their choices to the point Mike starts counting down from ten. Ten seconds to decide or you’re not buying anything. It’s a mad scramble, but they’ve memorized their options at this point and the pressure helps them pull the trigger.

I think they get that from me. I am never more decisive than at the last possible second.

I hug Karina goodbye (and her sweet friend who had joined us) and we make our way back through the dark, sketchy side streets to the RV.

Day 6 Vlog (Mike says this is his favorite so far):