Huts and Trail Markers

Mount Karioi and the estuary near the path where I walk the dogs daily—Raglan, New Zealand

“I feel like you’ve aged ten years,” my friend said to me over a Facetime this past weekend. We were talking about the ending of all of this, going back of home.

I look through the pictures on my phone, and I guess I can see the change she is talking about. There are some physical and attitude changes—I think I am probably sillier (shocking), more confident, more, uh, mature I guess than I was. But there are also some deeper changes that she was talking about. I am reaching the end of my time here, which leads to one of my favorite things about endings—the reflection and processing bit.

Another friend and I have done this thing we call “Grieve Eve” in the past, where we sit in a cozy place, talk about things we will miss, things we won’t miss, read some prayers (several from Every Moment Holy), and probably cry a little and laugh a lot. It gives us space to say, “Oh remember this?” It gives us markers for where we have been, where we currently are, and where we are going. It serves to say that the transitory period is also good, it is valuable. And it lets us hold space for the big feelings and challenges that come from moving and changing rhythms, places, people, and time zones. I just texted her to remind me to bring the book of prayers on the flight so we can have a Grieve Eve on the flight back home. Maybe some complimentary wine will make an appearance.

But there are some kilometers to go before we get to that Sauvignon Blanc. There are so many unknowns and things that hit my brain like ice at 3:30 in the morning when I wake up to the neighbor’s dog barking. Like how I have spent 80-100 hours searching, applying, emailing for jobs to land one tentative interview in Michigan. Everyone else is either not hiring, only looking for part time, or looking to hire someone else. And that one tentative interview (time unconfirmed) has meant the past two mornings I have woken up not knowing if I will have to answer the question, “Explain how you have dealt with a difficult situation in your previous work history” before I have had my morning coffee and let the dogs out.

Another piece of coolant hitting the fan in the wee hours of the morning is if I will be able to sell my car in the next two weeks. There is a pretty set deadline for trying to sell this vehicle, which is a decent price and appeals to a wide variety of people. But part of the problem is that it is the middle of winter in New Zealand right now, which means not many people are looking for cars. Try selling a minivan in the height of summer (October-March) and you could get $7000-$8000 for it. Sell that same vehicle in winter, and you’ll maybe get half that much. Now, I don’t think I am going to lose money on this vehicle, and, if I play my cards right, I can hopefully make money off of it. But now I have cast my hand and have gotten not much activity, which makes me a little anxious. It means I spend too much time refreshing Facebook Marketplace and TradeMe to see how many viewings my car has gotten.

There’s the absolute kaleidoscope of decisions about how to sell my vehicle while also using it to transport two checked bags, a half-used pantry, and a couple carry-ons, all while an hour or two from the airport with a couple location changes. The mental gymnastics of that are not really something I want to repeat again. It’s similar to the feeling of realizing you have to buy a mattress for your new apartment, which may reduce you to tears on a Saturday afternoon.

I also have had a lot of weird medical problems over these last nine months. Recently, mysterious pain in my foot led me to being couch-bound and asking anyone in the area if they had crutches I could use. It meant sitting in Urgent Care for six hours, not knowing if I would have to pay $800 or if it would be covered by ACC. After they determined it would be covered, they gave me a little business card with “Free X-Ray” written on it to give to radiology. It felt like playing monopoly. But I wasn’t complaining.

Amidst this confusing, worrying process, there is also good news—I say this not as a Precious Moments bit at the end to make you feel better, but as a reality that co-exists with the above narratives. I have a wonderful friend who just confirmed we got an apartment in Michigan. The only real connection I have to this friend is a CNA class we took together years ago, and a lot of mutual friends. But someone connected us, and it turned out we were both looking for an apartment in the same area. After a lot of searching and looking, mostly on her part, we found this great apartment with windows and a gas stove and a little balcony. How good! I guess sort of shockingly for me, everything worked out. I have good friends in the area, and this is good progress and a huge relief to have set in stone.

I sit now in the sauna, top row, across the wood burning stove and the picture window looking over the rolling hills and to the sea below. And in the quiet breathing of a dozen people, it comes to me. I am grateful. So immensely grateful for this. It is the people, as Elina Osborne, a thru hiker, has said. It is truly the people who have gotten me through this year. It is the people here, in Aotearoa. And it is the people over the phone in the States. I couldn’t have done this grand experience composed of the mundane-ness of life, without each of the people who have encouraged me to keep going. The other day when I was walking the dogs I am currently caring for, I suddenly felt very anxious. And I was brought back to the peace that comforted me two years ago when I was preparing to leave this same country. I looked up to Mount Karioi and breathed, the same God that has been with me, is with me right now, and will be with me in the future.

“I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth,” Psalm 121:1-2.

There are so many goodbyes, maybe for us all all the time, but I think particularly in times of transition—where I have been the past few years and much of this year. It gets to be heavily exhausting. And so I hold these twin truths in my hands: that community is truly what got me through this, and that in all of the goodbyes, of people, place, and creatures, I am accompanied by the same God. The same God who was with me on the top of Kepler when I thought I might die alone in a blizzard, crawling up a peak, and searching for the path, is the God who will be with me when I touch down in MSP. The same God who provided housing for me in Raglan has provided a place to live in Michigan. The same God who gave me multi-national community, helping me through my car being totaled, will be with me as I am placed in a new community in Michigan. The same God who gave me work through independent gardening jobs here in Raglan will be with me in the application process in Michigan. The same God who was with me when no one else could be, will be with me in all the monotony and loneliness that is to come.

And it is the people. They are the huts and trail markers along the way.

In Ben Rector’s song “Boxes,” he sings, “They’re just dreaming about some life out on the road, oh. And all I dream about is a day that I’ll be home.” It is a gift of course, to be out on the road. And there are ways it has been home. I will always have the desire to travel and tramp and explore and meet new people. But I can’t deny that I cried over pictures of my family this morning. Dreaming about the day that I’ll be home.