Bump The Sticker

WARNING: You may encounter triggering language.

I don’t usually go on a rant, but here goes.

Waiting to pull into the car wash, I had plenty of time to reflect on the bumper sticker on the car ahead of me. America. Love it or leave it. What does that even mean?

The week before, I tried to choke down my lunch while staring at the bumper sticker in front of me that declared, You should be grateful, you could have been aborted. What does one even do with that?

And how about these equally polarizing pearls of wisdom:

Proud to be Everything a Republican Hates

When I die, don’t let me vote Democrat

I think, therefore I vote: Democrat

Unvaccinated Conservative Meat Eating Gun Owner: How else can I offend you today?

For the love of whatever we might all hold dear, what are we doing? How did we become so divided from and at odds with our fellow citizens? How did we become so completely us vs them? Decide that we’re right, you’re wrong, and if you don’t agree with us, then you are the f-ing problem?

I’ll tell you one thing. Inflammatory bumper stickers aren’t helping us get out of the mess for which we are all, in part, responsible. Generally, they are statements of what the driver of that vehicle claims as the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

So help me God, I am beginning to see these types of bumper stickers as cowardly statements from which one can drive away, leaving no room for curiosity, conversation, connection, conversion, compromise, or collaboration. Which, by the way, are the only ways out from the rock and the hard place between which we are all stuck.

So let’s bump the sticker, roll up our Amercian sleeves, and get to work to building, re-building, building for the first time, take your pick, an imperfect country that we can all love in our own unique ways, and that makes room for and takes care of us all.

Thanks for listening.

Life Lessons

A friend once told me that I’m always looking for a lesson to write about. I decided to take it as a compliment.

It isn’t that I’m looking to teach others a lesson, believe me. It’s just that I still have so much to learn and life has so much to teach. Stuff just shows up, hits me on the forehead, and I can’t NOT write about it.

Recent cases in point:

A friend is in the process of putting new floors in her house. When I asked her how it was going, her face lit up as she answered, “They are beautiful!” In the past there have been some painfully dark days played out on those floors, but this is a new chapter.

New chapters call for new floors. New footing upon which to stand.

At another home, a new deck was built. The old one had to go as a result of some big-time excavation to replace old pipes. Much life has taken place on that old deck. Memories were made, early morning coffees shared, forgiveness asked for and given, games played, and meals shared. Family, friends, laughter, tears, and courageous conversations make up the beautiful story that is that old deck. That was then. This is now.

A new deck is a viewing platform from which to see with new eyes. Same view, different take.

See what I mean?

Life shows up, hits me in the face, and I can’t NOT write about it.

It’s the only way I know to get the lessons to stick.

Being Bridges

“Do you think faith is a gift or a choice?” asked my friend.

What a great question. One that I didn’t have time to ponder, as the answer showed up immediately on the blackboard of my mind. “It’s both. And practice is the bridge that connects the two.”

Practice is the bridge that spans the mystery that is faith, and upon which we find traction for our convictions, callings, and inklings. The bridge of practice provides a way from here to there without having to know all of the answers. If that’s not faith, I don’t know what is.

Ever since that conversation I’ve been preoccupied with bridges. I see them—and the need for them— everywhere. Over the course of our lifetime we will, time and again, find ourselves on one side of an expanse that feels impossible to cross. We’ll need a bridge

Anyone can be a bridge.

A bridge across which prayers are answered.

A bridge across which someone who is lost can find their way back home.

A bridge that spans a fear too terrifying to cross alone.

A bridge that makes it possible for opposing views to find common ground.

A bridge across which forgiveness travels.

A bridge that makes it possible to leave an old story behind and begin to live into a new one.

A bridge that connects us to them.

Of all the reasons we roam the planet, being a bridge might hover near the top of that list. Why are we here if not to create connections, span gaps, and provide a way where none exists. Like faith, being a bridge is both a gift and a choice, and it is practice that connects the two.

There’s a reason that armies destroy enemy bridges. It is to sever connection.

Let’s not let that happen. Let’s be a bridge.

(Written with gratitude to Caley for asking the beautiful question, because questions can be bridges too.)

Bridge Repair

The Hood River Bridge spans the Columbia River, and serves as a connection between Washington and Oregon. There’s lots of controversy about the bridge including what it costs to cross from one side to the other, the price of its upcoming replacement, the undue financial burden it places on those whose labor keeps our Gorge communities running but can barely afford to live here, and on and on and on. One thing that is undeniable is that this bridge matters. It’s necessary. It connects us one to another, and makes life possible in countless ways.

Recently, the bridge underwent necessary repair work to address deck fractures due to heavy truck loads. This meant that there were intermittent single-lane closures, usually lasting about 15 minutes, which meant drivers needed to allow additional time to make it to that doctor’s appointment, job, lunch with a friend, or whatever errands were on the list for that day. While a bit of an inconvenience, repairing fractures on a bridge that crosses a big body of water seems worth the trouble.

I didn’t expect the process to make an emotional impact on me.

But it did.

Pickup trucks were parked every so often, and in between each truck were two welders wearing helmets, goggles, and protective gloves, bent over their section of the bridge requiring reinforcement. There was no music accompanying their efforts, but the welders moved with the elegance and precision of those who have spent countless hours mastering the art of repair. A porta potty sat on the back of a flatbed truck located in the middle of the bridge, and flaggers directed traffic. Drivers were cautioned to drive slowly so as to ensure the safety of the workers, and to refrain from looking at the brilliant welding arc light that flashes as the welding iron worked its magic.

As I observed the process I suddenly had this lump in my throat. What I was watching was what I could only call a stunningly choreographed dance of collective human endeavor, and like it or not, regardless of our opinion about the bridge and how it is or isn’t being managed, we were all a necessary part of that dance. Because the bridge matters to all of us. And the bridge matters because connection matters.

Bridges, real or metaphorical, are what connect us from here to there. From one person to another. From one perspective or belief to a differing one. From one side of the political aisle to the other. And like the Hood River Bridge, at one time or another repair is needed to provide safe passage to the other side, and we all have a part to play.

So when encountering bridge repair, be mindful to proceed slowly and with caution for the safety and wellbeing of all involved. And don’t look directly at the welding arc, because there is some blindingly brilliant magic at play in the work of repair..

Love Ya, See Ya, Bye.

Bob Henderson was born on April 13, 1944.

He was born to parents who had come through the depression and knew how to work hard and live frugally. Like many in their generation, parenting was probably mostly about keeping young Bob safe, fed, and well behaved, leaving little time or inclination to understand the inner workings of a young boy. An early report card suggested that perhaps he didn’t play well with others, which made total sense. An only child, he didn’t have siblings to play with, fight with, or get into mischief with, and his parents were busy putting food on the table. All of which meant that, from an early age, he learned to depend on and be responsible for himself.

And despite that beginning, my brother-in-law, Bob, has cultivated a life lived in service to others, a heart overflowing with generosity, and a spirit that is as tender as it is strong. His is the first hand to be raised with an offer to help, no matter the task. Often called Big Bucks Bob, although his stash of bucks isn’t limitless, you’d never know it by the way he shares the financial fruits of his labor with those he loves. While he may have a deep conviction to a particular view of an issue, when it comes to the human being in front of him, love wins out every time. Period.

A One on the Enneagram—known as the Improver or the Perfectionist—he looks for ways to better the world around him, starting with himself. As such, he is his own harshest critic, which is why he is daily amazed by the grace he receives from the God that he loves. It is that overwhelming grace that moves him to be the first to apologize, ask for forgiveness, and allow whatever just transpired to help him move forward with more compassion and greater self-awareness. He is an old dog forever committed to learning new tricks.

His love for his family is second only to his love for God. His faith is the bedrock of his life, the light on his path, and the compass by which he steers his trusty ship. At 80 years old, death doesn’t scare him because he knows to whom he belongs. All of that can be summed up in his signature sign off from every phone call: Love ya, see ya, bye.

With those words, when it comes to Bob Henderson, you can rest assured that you are loved, you are seen, and it’s only goodbye for now.

Happy Birthday Bob. Our world and my heart are better because of you.

Love ya, see ya, bye.

Happy Anniversary X 4

On April 11, 2020, we took our first hike up a nearby logging road. In the midst of the early days of the pandemic, we needed exercise that didn’t require a gym or Peloton, and, we needed fresh air. That 1.7 mile trek, with a 1000’ of elevation gain, checked all of the boxes.

At first, it was simply a way to stay healthy and strong, and we made a commitment to do it whether we felt like it or not.

At first, it was just a logging road, used by county utility workers, ranchers on the look out for free range cattle, hunters, and us.

At first, it was just something we did because we’d decided to do it.

Today, April 11, 2024, four years to the day since that first trip up, and with over 350 trips behind us, the logging road has shown herself to be holy ground, quietly supporting us as we make our way up and back, up and back, up and back. The trees—fir, pine, oak—the wildlife—deer, elk, turkeys, jays, squirrels, hares, coyotes, raptors, bears—all remind us that we are never alone, but surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses.

Four years later, we wouldn’t miss it. That road has kept her promise to help us stay healthy and strong.

Four years later, hers is a sacred path we are privileged to walk.

Four years later, we do it because we can’t imagine not.

April 11, 2020

April 10, 2024

Wake-up Call

It’s a blustery spring day here. Blue sky, clouds—some dark and ominous, others white and billowy—race across the sky, gusts of wind cause pine trees to sway, drops of rain splatter windshields, and brilliant sunshine all come together to inhabit the masterpiece that is this day.

It is as if the earth is trying to shake itself awake.

And it’s working.

Everywhere there is evidence of new life. Tiny calves arrive in the pastures. Ranchers plow and plant the fields. Buds burst on branches, wildflowers appear according to some anciently choreographed order, and blossoms turn orchards white and pink with the possibility of another fruitful season.

It happens every year. The earth knows when to wake up and tend to that which is ready to grow. If we pay attention we’ll find that we are living within the pages of nature’s handbook. A dummies guide to a fruitful life.

Spring is a reminder to shake ourselves awake and tend to whatever is ready to inhabit the masterpiece that is our life.

What Have You Been Up To?

“What have you been up to lately, Molly?” a good friend asked me this morning. For the life of me, I couldn’t really come up with an answer. Or at least not one that felt worth giving. Which did not feel good. At all.

It’s been a fallow season. Already three months into the year, and not much to show for it. Not in the tangible sense anyway. No book outline, new website, Substack presence, or speaking possibilities on the horizon. All of which are humming along on my internal radar, but are not outwardly in the works. Yet.

So what have I been up to lately? I guess simply living, one ordinary day at a time. Which come to think of it, is kind of extraordinary, because to even be alive in the first place is a miracle in and of itself.

Like the earth, the humus in which our life grows needs seasons of quiet. Times of rest. Stretches of time during which the compost of what we’ve contributed up until now can enrich the soil in which the new seeds of our life can take root and grow.

If you are going through a time when you haven’t been up to much lately, take heart. All that we’ve done before is meant to be the fertile ground for what is still to come. Even when that is simply living, one ordinary day at a time.

Shawshank Wisdom

It can all start to feel like death by a thousand paper cuts.

Aging.

It happens to the best of us.

With every new trip around the sun, passing day, and next breath, we’re older than the ones before. The process does seem to accelerate though. Injuries that used to heal quickly now take longer to mend. Joints that didn’t hurt yesterday make themselves known today. Checking things out to see what this or that might mean, or not mean, becomes a more common occurrence. One can tire of having to think about, tend to, and tolerate a body that isn’t what it was not so long ago. At least this one does.

However.

Given that getting older is here to stay, there’s a choice to be made about what to do with what we’ve got.

Open our arms wide in acceptance, or shrug our shoulders in resignation.

One is active. The other passive.

To accept is to welcome, receive, and participate in. To resign is to give in, quit, and withdraw from.

Acceptance is about taking life on. Resignation is about letting it go.

Or in the words of Andy Dufresne, “get busy living or get busy dying”.

Better Off Said

I don’t even remember what the conversation was about. But at some point this past week, as we sat talking over our morning coffee, something that had previously been unsaid, was shared. Those few words connected dots that hadn’t made sense. Colored in the outline that my imagination had been attempting to fill, and as is usually the case, the real picture was much less scary than the imagined one.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t monumental, but it mattered. It wasn’t a big reveal, but a small revelation. It wasn’t a big deal, but it was the real deal.

How often, I wonder, do we keep things to ourselves that would be better off shared? Hold back for fear of what will happen if we actually disclose what we’ve kept to ourselves?

Maybe that’s some of the good, hard work of relationships. Especially our closest ones. To disclose what has previously been held back. To say what’s been waiting to be said. To share our thought bubbles, as scary as that might sound on a good day, much less a rough one.

Yes, some things are better left unsaid. But what about the ones that aren’t?