I-80

Last night I put one of my Chayanne cds in on my home from work.

I bought that cd right before I left Minnesota and listened to it quite a bit on the drive from there to San Diego.

It's one of those cds that to me is like a time capsule, that when I hear it, I can instantly remember a time.

I remember the orange and green scarf I tied around my hair, and the big Jackie-O sunglasses I wore. I remember not being able to see out my rearview mirror, because everything I owned was in the backseat.

I remember stopping for chicken strips and feeding little bits to Maximus, who was a four month old little ball of fluff. He was such a little trooper. For the first hour he mewed and cried a bit, and I was so scared and unsure myself that it made me cry and when he saw me cry, he crawled right up in my lap and calmed down and purred, looking up at me from time to time, as if to make sure that he was making me feel better. For the rest of the trip, he was fearless, and seemed to really enjoy it.

I remember the feel of the slightly threadbare seats in my old grey honda, and the ridges on the back of the steering wheel. I remember being heartsick and scared, alone and lonely, and feeling as lost in my own life as I would have been on those flat prarie plains if not for the I-80 leading on and on and on, straight west. I remember wondering if my parents cared enough to help. Experience said they might be good for some money, but not anything that really mattered or that I really needed. Money would buy me some time to think, and if I could just go home to San Diego, and have time to think, maybe it would be ok. And so I was heading to San Francisco, where they lived, with just enough money to get there.
Lack of options is the ultimate adventure.

I stopped that night, some small town in Nebraska, because I was crying and it was hard to see the road. I pulled into a hotel that had mostly big-rigs and a few RVs in the parking lot. I was pleasantly surprised that they allowed pets, so I didn't have to smuggle Maximus in. I took a hot shower, washing my hair with hand soap because the hotel didn't provide any, mine would have taken an hour of unpacking the backseat, and the towns only drugstore was closed. Mau and I watched the town's only channel, some Lifetime Channel-esque thing about a woman murdered by her husband. I tried to get my money's worth out of stopping for the night, by getting some sleep, but my sucess there was minimal.

I started my old car the usual way, by wrapping a bobby pin in chewing gum foil and wedging it in the battery terminal before reattaching the wires and turning the key.

I remember trying to face the day a bit more bravely, but by Wyoming, I was crying again. Finally I thought it might be time to tell God that now would be a great time for Him to do something. Anything.

"I don't know where I'm going. I don't know how much longer I can do this. Some direction, please."

And the answer came, and if you've never really listened for Him, I don't know that I can explain the way the answer comes, but you know it.

"Sheesh, you think I got you as far as Wyoming and I'm gonna drop you now?"




When I got to San Francisco, I didn't ask my parents for anything. My dad handed me $100 as I left and I didn't refuse it. It was enough for gas to San Diego. I didn't really know what I would do when I got there, but I felt ok.

And it was hard, but a few old friends helped me out, and a few new ones too.

And so many times when I've prayed, "I don't know where I'm going. I don't know how much longer I can do this. Some direction, please" I've gotten the same answer.

"Sheesh, I got you this far, and you think I'm gonna drop you now?"