Mowin' Lawns and Old Dogs

I mowed the yard today for the last time this year. I really missed someone. I hadn't thought about her, while mowing, at any time earlier this year, but somehow she was there today. During the summer of 2008, Abby, my big, black Lab was still alive. Every time I would mow, she would trudge patiently along behind me. She didn't care about where we were going, just that she was going with me. It was never the journey or even the destination, it was all about the company. At least that's what I would have said if I had ever been asked. Sara and I have been married for 43 years. She, too, has spent years patiently trudging behind me wherever I thought I needed to go. It was never the journey or even the destination, it was all about the company. I took her from small-town North Carolina to our first apartment in the very center of Philadelphia. Over the years, we've moved from that city of well over a million people to a very rural, southern Mississippi town of about 600 people and to several other different places of various sizes. Somehow, Winston-Salem grew to be home, the place we seemed to always return to, but it never was about the journey or the destination, it was all about the company. At least that's what I would have said if I had ever been asked. Today, I wonder. If Abby, the Lab, had decided to start down the road on her own, would I have followed without question? Years ago, if Sara had decided she wanted to finish college in Idaho, would I have followed uncomplainingly? If she had received a great job offer in Vermont or Cleveland, would I have wanted to go? I think that I can honestly answer, yes (well, maybe not Cleveland.) What I recognize at this time of my life, is that, at least for me, it has not only been about the company, it has also been about the journey and destination. I love Sara more than words can ever say and I am very blessed to have her in my life. I cannot imagine better company in the past, today, or as we move into the future together. I've rarely traveled anywhere without her nor seen anything special without her that I didn't want to be sharing with her. The great thing is that she hasn't minded, at least too badly, the journey or the destination. Here is where I am a little bit worried. Sara has settled down. If I am committed to the company, and I am very committed to the company, that means that I have settled down as well. I'm not ready. I can't imagine never knowing what is just over the next hill or just around the next curve in the road. I can't imagine never again meeting a cowboy or a trash man or a brew master or a woman firefighter or a shrimper or a lumberjack. I can't imagine not continuing to have my life enriched by tales of different lifestyles from those who have lived them. My friend, Rodney Aist, is just barely older than my own children. He is a PhD, an ordained Methodist minister, has lived in Scotland and Jerusalem and on the Navajo reservation. He has made a pilgrimage walk through Spain and has managed a summer camp for several years. He has hiked and camped and slept beneath the Northern Lights. I can sit and listen to him tell about all of those things for hours without being even a little bit bored. Maybe he wishes he had a wife, children, a dog, a house, and a truck. He still has a chance to do those things. Some or all of them may be the next thing over the hill or around the next curve in the road. The thing about Rodney is that he wasn't going to find me at my house, I had to go find him. Another friend like Rodney may be waiting for me to find, but I believe that I have to be on a journey to a different destination to have that opportunity. I don't believe that God's plan for me includes new journeys and new destinations. I am trying hard to accept whatever that plan may be. In the meantime, I'm going to try hard to be the best "me" that I can be right where I am. After all, I may no longer have the journey or the destination, but I can continue to be eternally grateful for the company.