The Way Home

riding back from the east coast

There is nothing like a long road trip to enjoy too much coffee, long audio books, and the chance to let your mind relax with endless green trees and blue skies filling the view.

We were on our way back from a great trip to the East Coast—a nephew’s wedding, visiting friends, a few days of sightseeing. When you come home, you remember the comfort of your own bed. And after the hotel we stayed in, the memory of home felt like a palace. My own clean sheets, carpets you don’t need to wear shoes on.

But about two hours out, a pit started growing in my stomach. And that feels like an awful thing to say. Because even more than the comforts of home, Calvin was waiting for us.

By some miracle (truly) we had a team to provide round-the-clock care so Darryl and I could both go, which seemed important since Darryl was officiating the wedding and I was MC at the reception.

After recording too many how-to videos on my phone for the new members of Calvin’s care, writing up care plans, and being altogether consumed with the effort of preparation, we left him with people kind and capable. Somehow I also remembered to pack for myself. Ha.

During the trip, we didn’t call back. The last time we tried calling him when we were away, he cried. And then we all cried and vowed we’d never do that again. Since then, Darryl or I have always tag-teamed. One goes away with the kids, the other stays with Calvin. One takes a few days with friends, the other stays. It’s a wild leap of logistics and faith to both leave, but it had happened, and we we’re excited to get back home and see him.

So why the pit? I asked myself the same question.

This past week my brother carried his one-year-old in a hiking backpack. There we were, deep in the Poconos, and Zach came running by me on the trail, her blond hair bouncing as she tagged along for the wild ride. At each waterfall he’d carefully off-load the pack and take her out, and get a moment of relief for his tight shoulders. Days earlier, in New York City, he’d fidgeted with it. “This thing is killing my shoulders. The weight doesn’t sit right.” He moved it around, adjusted, and apparently it worked, because there he was running trails.

Calvin’s care is a bit like that: demanding, but we know how to displace the weight, where to tighten the load, when we need a break. But taking the load off for a bit reminds you where your back hurts, of how good it feels to stretch and be free from the constraints of alarms and 24-hour care. To sleep through the night. To have an evening where you simply consider putting your own pajamas on, brush your teeth, and just go to bed with not a single piece of medical equipment or nurse in sight.

But that pit. I recognized it. It’s like putting on a heavy pack that never gets comfortable, that always pinches the shoulders and makes your back sore. And just as Zach can’t leave little Sage at the waterfall, you put your child back in the pack, bend down, hoist the load onto your back. You adjust the straps and set your mind on the hike ahead.

For many years, I found it was easier to just never leave the situation. To keep trucking instead off having to put the pack down and pick it back up. I felt an incredible lack of courage at hoisting the load back on. And so for years I didn’t. The re-entry was harder—the pain of the situation taken in with new eyes after a taste of “normalcy.” Somehow if you just stay in it, you forget the load. So I stayed.

Before we left, I talked with a nurse friend who was helping out. She works at the local hospital but she hadn’t cared for the sort of medical needs Calvin has. She felt intimidated, but wanted to help while we were gone. I encouraged her that the discomfort was temporary. By the time we got back, she’d have grown a whole new skill set. There was backup nearby. She could call me anytime, day or night, and we’d FaceTime and problem-solve anything.

Growth is often prompted by discomfort. Maybe I should take my own advice.

We are home today. It was so good to see Calvin. And we got through the initial paces of the care that is the rest of his life. I’m living in fresh reminders that the road ahead is hard for him. I don’t like it much. Alongside much love in my heart, still, also: a pit in my stomach.

But Romans reminds us we’re growing a new skill set: “suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” I would prefer Christlikeness on an easier path. A less heart-rending one.

Discomfort and endurance with faith changes us. Not because it’s redeeming, but it makes us squirm and draw back, and then lean in, to Him. And even more than scraping along in endurance, we’ll be changed as we look to Jesus. We’re depending with our lives on it.

“He is not impressed with the strength of a horse; he does not value the power of a warrior. The Lord values those who fear him, those who put their hope in his faithful love” (Psalm 147).

God’s delight isn’t in our strength or ability but in the fresh placing of hope in His steadfast love. So this morning, as the machines run and buzz, and diapers need changing before that morning cup of coffee—Lord, here we are. In our need. We hope in You.

For this day and the next, even (especially) with a pit in our stomach. All the way home.

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