Wasn’t I just saying that we shouldn’t make plans, because God can easily trump those silly human plans?
I am beginning to wonder if I am ever meant to leave the bounds of this country, let alone the confines of my four stark white, barren walls. I have never been to Canada. I have never been to Mexico. Heck, I have barely even left the western United States. Arizona is as far east as I have ventured, and that was on a bus tour to see the Grand Canyon. We were staying in Las Vegas and ended up leaving the Grand Canyon early because a snow storm was on the way. It was November, after all. Our bus driver did not want to be stuck crossing the Grand Coulee Dam because of snow or panicked drivers, scared of a few flakes. Okay, maybe it was a big storm. Who knows? We didn’t stick around to see, and we didn’t check out the news when we got back to our hotel, either.
For three years, I even lived a stone’s throw, well a measly ferry ride, from Vancouver, BC, and I never made it across our northern border. My kids have been to Canada, without me, of course. My grandmother, from whom I get my wanderlust, flew cross country—and out of the country—several times a year with her sister, gallivanting all over, that is, until Grandpa put a stop to it. He was rather a homebody. My grandmother had such an adventuresome spirit that, after her first child passed away (premature birth complications) and when her first marriage was failing, she told that first husband that she was moving out west, with or without him. So, on her own, with divorce decree in hand, she moved from chilly North Dakota to God’s Country (aka Washington State). I have long envied her daring and self-assured nature. I have a long list of excuses as to why I have not traveled much up to this point in my life, from finances, to health issues, to trying to raise two kids alone, to anxiety and fear overtaking my life for a time. Sometimes I ask myself, would Grandma have let those things stand in her way? Probably not.
In my last entry, you may recall that I was all excited about taking the Raven on her maiden voyage. Well, those plans are in the circular file once again. The Jeep, our TOAD (towed vehicle, in RV lingo), has broken down. I had hoped that last year, after we sunk nearly $3000 into it, that it might actually be in tip-top shape, aside from needing a new top. It’s a ’92 Wrangler with a pitiful soft top right now. We have been in the market for a hard top, but have not as yet found one. As happens with older vehicles, the clutch went out, as well as another major issue I cannot remember right now. So, our little red darling is once again sucking up all our savings. It’s not enough that my medical issues have repeatedly drained our slush fund, now the Jeep has to take its share? Not fair.
We have been diligently selling off all our treasures, squirreling away all our nickels, dimes, and dollars. We didn’t have much saved up, but it was enough that I felt secure enough to travel, with sufficient funds should an emergency arise.
Bleepedy, bleep. That blasted Jeep. It isn’t a cheap fix. And so, there goes all our squirreled away nuts. Maybe I’m nuts for wanting this life. Or maybe God is just telling us we would be better off with our first trip closer to home. . .