4/22/2013. - Day 27 - And they'll know we are Christians by our Love
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| Our mini biker gang: Me + the exhibitionists |
Flagstaff. Fortune Telling. Sedona. Semi-Sturgis.
Playboy?
I awake to the sound of snoring. Again. Oh well. The still
unfamiliar feeling of sleep that comes most nights is so amazing that a few
nights with snoring won’t kill me. Even if it will severely irritate me…
When I checked into my room last night, I entered to find
that the current occupant had arranged her blankets so that they made a fort
that covered the bottom bunk completely. The bedspreads had been tucked into
the bunk above and the entire bed was surrounded by blankets leaving it
undetermined if the occupant was there or not. By morning, after hearing the
creature snore, I knew there was life inside. When I heard the flaps of the
tent rustle as my roommate emerged from the dark fortress, I too decided to get
up. I sat up and greeted her, and was surprised. She was about 70 years old—not
your typical hostel dweller. I said good morning warmly and asked a bit about
her trip. She then asked what my destination was for today and I answered that
I would like to see Sedona. She said she
was moving on today, but wished me a good trip to Sedona and stated she was
sure I knew of the “channelers” there.
Channelers? Like river channels? Or people who row through
river channels? Or people who change your TV channels with the remote? Not even
close.
I indicated that I was not familiar with channelers nor did
I know of their existence in Sedona. My roommate then provided an explanation.
She began, “There are other channelers, like myself, in Sedona, who communicate
with the other side. We have been getting a lot of information from the other
side and a lot of people are talking,” she continued. “Something big is coming.
You can tell that it’s obvious by what just happened in Boston [citing the recent bombing during the Boston marathon]. It’s coming.” I
could tell this was a very serious matter and made sure to make the appropriate
“oh’s” and “um-hmm’s” in accordance with the statements she made.
Sidenote: Bridget Meranda, if you are reading this, please
know that during this entire encounter, my facial expression remained
completely serious outwardly, and conveyed that I was deeply interested and engaged, as opposed to freaked out and uncomfortable. I
know that you are proud.
My roommate's tone became quite serious as she advised me to collect
“at least 30 days of supplies” for whatever is coming. She then restated the
importance of this message, and urged me to tell anyone that I thought could
benefit from this information, especially young people, so that they are warned
and ready. The messages from the other side are very clear. Get your supplies.
Get ready.
And you are all
welcome and can thank me later for passing on this critical information to each
and every one of you.
I thanked the woman for telling me about the message and
providing me with a warning, and promised to tell everyone and warn them as
well. Then she was gone. I had to stand for a moment gathering my composure and
trying to let that experience just sink in. Wow. That-just-happened.
I’m sick of pancakes but I’m hungry and broke so I go and
make the hostel signature breakfast [pancakes] and enjoy them in the dining room. Lennart, the man who arrived
by motorcycle last night is present, as are some new faces and we all enjoy light
conversation over breakfast. Afterwards I go to the lobby to finish some
writing and visit with Lennart, who is from the Netherlands, about his
motorcycle trip. I cannot help myself from thinking of Goldmember and quoting, “I
am from Holland, isn’t that veird.” Lennart offers to give me a pass for saying
that once, but I better not call it Holland one more time. That was a long time
ago. And it is the Netherlands now.
I know that I am going to say it at least five more times. I apologize for
this in advance.
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| Canyon to Sedona |
Neither Lennart or I have specific plans for the day and
somehow it is decided we will take the bikes through the canyon to Sedona. I
peruse the city of Flagstaff in search of a loading dock to get the bike out of
the back of the pickup and encounter the most helpful employees ever at the
local Ford dealership. I had approached the service techs and asked if they
knew where I could find a loading dock nearby, and before I knew it, half a dozen
employees came out and took the bike out for me. They also showed me an area
with a concrete dock where I could load it back up after hours and promised to
move the vehicles from around it so that I could manage it alone. They were
overwhelmingly helpful and I thanked them over and over again. Just another
reason why Ford is such a wonderful company.
Not only do they think of gypsies like me who may need to camp in their
cars, and subsequently design them large enough for me to sleep in—but they
also hire friendly altruistic employees. Groan all you want.
When I return to the hostel, I find James, another
acquaintance from last night who is also two wheelin’ it, in the lobby with
Lennart. James is also coming with us and with that, our trio is ready to hit
the road.
We set out like the three musketeers from the island of
misfit toys, with an assortment of bikes and odd clothing and random and assorted
features. In our list of attributes are James' converse sneakers and plastic gallon water jug dangling from his bike, Lennart’s fashionable but not so durable leather jacket , and my white
Elvis jacket over so many layers of clothes I look like the kid in the snowsuit
from “A Christmas Story.” This is the first time my bike has been allowed out
of the truck since “the incident” (which is how I will refer to it) in Seattle
in early April. I am taking no chances on freezing, or anything else, and am in
full gear. I promise that in a few more posts, I will explain the disaster that
occurred on 4/3; but for now the wound is still too raw.
The road winds down into a canyon at a steep grade and with
many switchbacks. It’s both terrifying and beautiful to ride through this area.
I have driven it in a vehicle before, but have always wanted to get the
opportunity to take the bike through it. The hairpin curves are thrilling and
the view is spectacular as we make our way along the road.
We stop at an area where a fresh spring has been tapped and
it pours from a spigot and tumbles back down into the stream. The locals are
filling water jugs with it, and James approaches them and inquires if it would
be impolite to drink directly from the spigot. They do not indicate a “no
drinking from the spigot policy,” so James of course goes for it.
We ask for a
group picture as proof of our temporary but tough gang. Lennart is the only one
who pulls off looking mildly legitimate. I think I look like an uncomfortable Michelin
Man, and James’ expression just makes me laugh. Good job holding us together
Lennart. I send the image to my mother who immediately warns me not to get abducted. I'm not one who normally takes to riding around with strangers, but these guys seem a little less than threatening- I mean, has anyone ever been kidnapped by a guy from Holland in a faux leather jacket and another in Converse sneakers?
The day is hot and it's getting later in the afternoon when we
reach Sedona. I had to bandage every single toe and several areas of my feet
and heels with layers of tape and moleskin just to be able to bear walking.
Jamming that mess into my boot was not the easiest feat and I’m still hobbling.
It should be noted that this specific post is being edited and finalized nearly
six weeks after I actually emerged from the canyon. My feet STILL have
blisters.
The local grocery store makes for a good place to stop and
pick up a few things for a picnic lunch. We are all gypsies of a sort and our
funds are tight, making the grocery store all the more appealing. After that we
ride around until we find a park where we can stop for lunch.
The conversation turns deep at lunch somehow, as we all
discuss our travels and various adventures and encounters. I comment that I’ve
struggled on this trip because at times, I’ve been annoyed with the hippies or
upset with others whose lifestyles or actions differ from mine or irritate me. I think about my roommate earlier today who I had a hard time taking seriously and probably passed more judgement on than I am willing to admit. I try hard to love everyone and then get angry with myself
when I have low tolerance for other people. God tells us to love each other and
I’m frustrated at my own humanity and the difficulty I find in this simple command.
Lennart comments that “Free love is bullshit.” He goes on to say that you can’t
love everyone. We ponder this and I explain that I think the interpretation of
love is different for everyone, and what I am trying to do is find inherent
worth in every human being in that God created everyone in his image and
everyone has something good to offer. I’ve read Don Miller’s “Blue Like Jazz”
half a dozen times and I always come back to the part where he talks about
trying to find something to love in everyone and how difficult it is. I think
back to a time when I sat in church one morning and all I could see that day
were people around me who had hurt me or wronged me. Someone from high school
who had been cruel, or an adult who had abused leadership authority and instead
of building me up had made every effort to put me down, a lady who gossiped
about my family and hurt me. I looked around the congregation and I was angry
at all these people and then most of all, angry at myself for having hate in my
heart in the middle of church. I felt surrounded by the enemy right there
in the sanctuary and the real enemy was my own unforgiving heart.
Faith isn’t easy. Loving our neighbors isn’t easy. And
admitting that it is hard and that we still stumble is definitely not easy. I
went down to the river that day after church and sat there and reread that part
of Don’s book where he explains his own struggles with loving others who had
hurt him or wronged him in some way. He describes a great amount of guilt over
any hurt he has caused others, which I also experience deeply; but he also goes
into great detail about the ways he learned to love those people despite what
they may have done that hurt him or irritated him or whatever. I sat there that
afternoon and read and read, trying to get rid of my anger at these people,
trying to remind myself that I make mistakes and treat others unfairly at times
and that makes us human; and more than that, the ability forgive is the most important
piece in the whole deal. I was so ashamed that sitting there in church I had
such ugly thoughts. I think of this often because it’s hard much of the time to
love the people that we don’t understand, or who don’t act in the way we do or
follow the rules or moral code that we do. I get irritated with the hippies and
the costume people on the street in Hollywood and whole bunch of other people
for probably no reason at all. I get especially angry at the people who seem to
intentionally try to hurt or act cruelly towards me. And it’s easy to get
caught up in that anger and not look to forgiveness.
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| The people of Flagstaff know what it's all about. |
James and Lennart continue to discuss the variations of
“love” and ways it can be interpreted. What I think we conclude in the
conversation, is that we may not be “in love” with everyone, but the concept
was for us to “love” others, meaning respecting that every human has something
of worth. This is deep stuff for a spring Sedona day, but it reminds me of just
how much this trip means to me. To be able to step outside of my walls, outside
of some of the close mindedness of the Midwest, and have conversations with
absolute strangers about faith and politics and motorcycles and Converse
sneakers.
On the way back James suggests we stop at the creek. He was
there yesterday and knows where it is so he leads our pack. We spend a little
time locating the area that actually has access to the creek, and then park and
start climbing down the rock to the creek below. Yesterday, James made some
rock stacks which remain today. We are alone down on the rocky beach save for a
girl sun tanning and knitting off to one side of the path.
The sun is quite hot down here, and I roll up my jeans and
wade into the water. James follows and then Lennart. The sunbather takes our
photo. James and I visit and admire the rock stacks for a few minutes. In our
short time together, we somehow arrived at a conversation on faith and James
talks about his, stating that he doesn’t generally come right out and tell
people he is a Christian. He feels that this can sometimes be a turn off for
others, and prefers to live his faith as best he can, and let people see his
faith through his actions. I agree and comment that many times Christians can unknowingly turn
others from faith by being too outright and forceful in sharing their faith. Others
can interpret the actions of Christians as judgmental and condescending, or as
trying to force others to believe what they believe. I think to myself what a strange thing it is
for us not to be open about our faith and share it freely with others. I know
that the method of delivery is generally how others are turned away from the
church and from God, and I can certainly understand that in some cases; but I
also find it sad that we must strategize and sensor ourselves around others,
hoping our actions will expose us and hoping that maybe others will believe
through our concealed efforts. I’m not saying that I want to be a fanatic,
waving my arms around like crazy and screaming praises and shouting scripture.
I just want others to know what I know-- to know about never being alone and
being loved unconditionally and not having to be perfect or good at everything is enough.
I just want them to know they are enough, no matter what or who or where they
are. But we live in a world where religion and faith are scary sometimes and
people often get the wrong idea and nobody wants to be responsible for turning
others away from Christ.
This weighs on my
mind as I walk towards the opposite area of the creek to climb up onto a rock
ledge for a better view of the creek and its small waterfalls, and a moment of
reflection. Lennart and James are wary of getting their clothes too wet which I
think is ridiculous when it’s so hot out. I have already tread too far into
the creek in efforts to get to an area where I can climb the ledge so I’m
already soaked. As usual, this is my custom in getting too close to the water
on all occasions and ending up much less dry than I intend. We are all laughing and making harmless jokes. I make a comment
that I should like to push them both into the creek and run for it but they
remind me that running is not my strong suit at the moment given the condition
of my feet.
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The Playboy himself. I should add, I declare ownership of the
rights to this image. |
I reach the top of the rock ledge in time to see James
making his way back to the rock stacks-in his underwear. Not fair. Boys can go
anywhere in their underwear but it is not the same for girls. There is a host
of other things that they get to do and we don’t but I won’t go into that now.
Lennart is next to toss his jeans aside and soon they are both using my phone, which
I carelessly left in the pile by my boots, for their exhibition images. I shout that I will not be sorry when I have
posted the images on the internet and they become famous models. The girl who is knitting has turned her back
towards us and is obviously unimpressed.
I come down from the ledge and gather my belongings, knowing I should get a head start on the climb back up. As I start to put my gear back on, I talk to James about my reflections over the course of the day, and about the hippies. I admit that the reason I am probably irritated by them is because I feel insecure around them. They talk about conservation of the Earth, going without a lot of worldly possessions and modern conveniences-- and I feel judged. I don't always recycle, and I rather fancy motorcycles and air conditioning. And the hippies seem real keen on loving everybody and that is hard for me. But the problem isn't the hippies, the problem is me. Me and my own insecurities and feelings of judgement. And that has nothing to do with the hippies I admit to James. It has to do with my own self consciousness in not being "perfect" and seeing my human flaws more clearly in the presence of the hippies.
And that is another hard truth. That sometimes the things that we have a problem with touch a nerve or make a shortcoming of ours more real. They force us to think about things that make us uncomfortable in a lot of ways and all of this has nothing to do with these "irritating factors," so much as it has to do with our own insecurities; ultimately, our own humanity.
I gingerly pull my boots back on and
then start the climb back up the rocks and back to the road ahead of the boys.
It will most definitely take me a long time to get my muscles and feet to
cooperate enough to hoist me upwards. The boys come next and James has
destroyed his sunglasses but decides to wear them on his head anyway. He opts
to get back on his motorcycle with broken sunglasses and his pants rolled up to
his ankles. James is classy.
I note that I want to stop beside the gradient sign on the
way back as my brother and I have been swapping pictures of who can find the
steepest gradient. We ride back up the switchbacks and are nearly to the sign
when James drops back. Lennart and I stop and watch as a girl gets out of a car
parked on the side of the road, and onto James’ motorcycle. I locate the gradient
sign and go over to it so that I can get the picture. Before I know it, James
comes whizzing back my way, the girl on the back holding a camera and snapping pictures. Approaching our
group from the opposite direction is the car she came from. Everyone stops and
we discover that she and her parents are on vacation and she wanted a ride on a
motorcycle. James was conveniently riding by and stopped. And now here we all are.
This trip is funny like that.
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| Keep an eye out for reindeer. Noted. |
Lennart and I go on ahead and James offers rides to everyone
and then follows. The bike is loaded up back at the Ford dealership, and then
goodbyes are said at the hostel. Lennart is a giant like me so when it comes
time for us to hug goodbye, there is an awkward moment where we both go to the
“over” position since we are usually taller than those we are hugging, and
there is some confusion over placement of arms when two trees hug each other.
James gets some entertainment from this and then I hug him and am out the door.
As I reach for the door to my truck,
James rushes out and tells me that he is glad we met and that he will pray for
my safe journey. I too will pray for his safety as he travels around on his
bike. Faith finds us in such unexpected ways. It brings a smile to my face to
enjoy small gestures like a last minute blessing from a new friend.
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| "Welcome to New Mexico" |
Back on the road I am growing more and more tired after the late start. I could have stayed another night in Flagstaff but have a need to keep moving. When I cross the New Mexico state line, I decide that I need to rest before going further. The welcome center is well lit, and patrolled by police. I have never slept in a parking lot, and I have only slept once in my car when I was too cold and too lazy to pitch my tent at the Grand Canyon. But right now I am too tired to be very choosy about sleeping arrangements and despite the bright security lights illuminating the lot, and the constant chugging and gear shifting of semis as they move through, I’m sound asleep in no time.
At the range I opt for a Ruger Mark III, the same piece I myself own. I left mine at home
and luckily they have one I can use. Steve goes with a larger caliber revolver and we sign
our lives and liabilities away and enter the range. Since I’m trying to recall
much of this story from memory at this point (because I was too busy having fun
adventures to write down every detail), I’m going to guess we were shooting at 15-20 yards. 
My
first group was good but not on target with the "X" (Precise but not accurate). I adjusted and got on target, and then
reset the sights according to my findings. Steve was struggling but stated it
was because he had an unfamiliar and much larger pistol than me. I asked if ability to shoot a gun wasn't something he was supposedly trained to do for his vocation, and then offered up
that maybe shooting just wasn't his thing. I received an angry look for the
last comment.
As I surveyed our targets, I deduced that we were both highly capable of
killing an attacker regardless of our lack of exact accuracy. We have decent
groupings and no one put a bullet in the ceiling or the wall. We chat with the
owner of the store who offers his story and views on gun rights. I ask if my little Ruger
is even capable of protecting me in a situation with an attacker. The man
explains that when someone is shot with a larger caliber gun and goes to the hospital,
they cut a hole into their body where the bullet entry is to assess the damage. When someone is shot
with a .22, he continues, they cut from the throat in a long line down the chest
and open their whole chest cavity up. The .22 ricochets and tears up your
insides doing some serious damage to the human body. The man supplements this with a story about a gal who was attacked in the
shower. As her assailant dragged her into the bedroom, she pleaded and stated
she had money to give him. He gave her a few seconds to reach into her
nightstand for the "money", and ended up with ten to the chest. “Killed him dead
as a mackerel,” the gun shop owner said. I think that's a feeling more serious that "dead as if you just came from the canyon," though I'm still feeling like I have a pretty severe handicap on my physical aliveness. 
