USA: How long? I don't know. Just keep holding on

Coffee jitters at sunrise, ripping up fairytales, an Irish rock band covering a Psalm of David, simultaneous faith and doubt, and the things Google doesn't believe exist--but we know better

According to Google, the old 24-hour Spires restaurant on the corner of Willow and Lakewood in Long Beach, California doesn’t exist. But it does, at least in my mind. My husband Andy and I spent much of our dating life at Spires, back in the wee hours of the 1990s. We often showed up at ten o’clock at night for a cup of coffee, only to look up a few minutes later, surprised to see the sun coming up.

Across from one another in that slick vinyl booth with the laminated table, we dreamed about our future. Travel and serving God in exotic and not-so-exotic places; going, seeing, learning, and loving—we would do it all, all around the world. The night-shift waitress didn’t need to ask before refilling our coffee mugs. We eventually invited her to our wedding. Why shouldn’t we? She had overseen our engagement.

In the years that followed, we were able do a small fraction of the traveling we had envisioned over late-night mugs of black coffee, but most of those dreams stayed tucked away in a dusty box in the garage. For the next couple of decades, life had more pressing demands.

Then we got the opportunity to follow a traveling trade show around the United States—getting paid to drive around the country for months at a time as a family. Although it wasn’t ideal—winter driving conditions and countless cheap motel rooms—Andy and I were thrilled! Our kids, on the other hand, wearied of it after the first year. Unfortunately, we did it for five.

But our beloved children eventually grew up and left home, leaving us free once again to dream. We felt like kids in a coffee shop, but without the all-night caffeine jitters.

Five years ago, we began to dream of an early-ish retirement in Central America, where the cost of living is quite low, so long as your Spanish is good enough that you don’t need to be in an a big-city expat community. We studied maps and enrolled in language classes for gringos taught by a Mexican immigrant.

Four years ago, we first learned that people can—and do—drive the Pan-American Highway, a more-or-less continuous stretch of road from Prudhoe Bay, the top of the road in Alaska, to Ushuaia, the southernmost town in South America. We switched gears from dreaming of a lazy beach community in Panama, to someday driving the world in our own hand-built expedition vehicle.

Three years ago, we decided to stop putting our dreams off any longer. We began considering our options of how to finance this wacky idea, while at the same time researching our options for a sturdy travel rig. We finally landed on a few ideas for how to monetize our home in Montana and decided to look for a used Japanese-made commercial truck to purchase and modify.

Two years ago, we purchased our beloved Walter, a 2010 Mitsubishi Fuso with low miles, factory four-wheel drive, and a strong diesel engine.

One year ago, we began building the habitation box that will eventually be our full-time home. Having never attempted a project like this before, we set a goal to hit the road in May of 2023. May became June, then July.

As of now, August 2023, we still have a partially completed habitat in the barn and a beefy truck in the yard—complete with new tires, springs, and subframe and, as of this week, new seats and fresh paint. Soon, we hope to roll the box out of the barn, bring in a crane to pick it up, and marry it to Walter’s subframe. Then we can fiberglass and paint the exterior, finish the interior, and hit the road. The new goal is sometime this fall.

It has been an enormous task so far, and although logically we are further along than we’ve ever been, it feels like there is still so much further to go.

Meanwhile, I have been pursuing my own creative endeavor. In February of this year, I began writing the book I have been wanting to write for twenty years. Yes, right in the middle of our big truck build. Good timing, right? It also has proven to be an enormous task, much larger than I could have ever imagined at the outset. The primary storyline begins in 1926 and ends in 1952, and I am currently rounding the corner into 1949 with only one major plot point to go. It is technically nearing completion, but it still somehow feels like I will never reach the finish line, even for this first draft. And then the editing and rewriting begins. I have big plans for this novel, but I have to somehow finish it first.

Like a cruel mirage in the desert, it seems the closer we get to our goals, the further away they feel. Over the last two weeks, it has become obvious to us both that we are not doing so well. We are tired. We are wiped out from being so close to things that are so big for so long. Have you ever felt this way? I am calling it “anticipation fatigue.”

Just like the original Spires on Willow and Lakewood Blvd., the search engines say anticipation fatigue doesn’t exist. But we know it does, at least in our minds. It is exhausting to live for years with this level of hope-fueled optimism. Enthusiasm can only carry a person so far, and we seem to have found its outer limits.

It reminds me of a song from Shrek, the Musical called “I Know It’s Today.” The Princess Fiona is locked in a tower, awaiting a prince to come rescue her. She has books full of fairytales, so she knows he will come eventually, and then they will ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. Story after story says that’s how it works. But the longer she waits, first a few days, then a few months, then many years, the more the doubts start to creep in. Eventually, she starts ripping pages out of the book because the expectations they have created no longer match up with her reality. And yet, despite her discouragement, she must continue to believe her prince will come—and she does believe.

Every time I hear this song, I am reminded of the father in the biblical account from the Gospel of Mark, chapter nine. The man comes to Jesus as a last resort, begging for help with his son. I’m paraphrasing here, but the basic gist of the conversation is this:

The father, desperate, says to Jesus, “If you can do anything, please help.”

Jesus retorts, “What do you mean ‘if I can do anything’? All things are possible for those who believe.”

I feel the father’s response so deeply. I see him drop his head and run his fingers through his hair in utter frustration at his own cognitive dissonance. “I DO believe,” he says. Then he quickly adds, “Help me with my unbelief.”

So honest. I do believe. And I also doubt. I do trust. And I also fear. I am optimistic. And I also can’t see anything good coming out of this.

The popular Irish band U2 wrote and recorded a song called simply “40”, aka “40 (How Long)”, based almost entirely on the words of David in Psalm 40. In the two verses of U2’s song, just like in the Psalm, the writer acknowledges having waited patiently for God to rescue and save in the past—and God did it. But in the chorus, there appears to be a new crisis. There is hope that, just like last time, God will come through and as a result, “I will sing a new song” of deliverance. But how long will the waiting last? How long before I can sing that new song? How long? In the song, the longing is palpable. Once again, discouragement and hope go hand in hand.

Anticipation fatigue is real, no matter what Google says or doesn’t say.

I was 30 years old when my second child was born. We had a rough ride of pregnancy, labor, and delivery. I won’t go into all the details, but we nearly lost our baby several times during the pregnancy—then during delivery, my husband, toddler, and newborn nearly lost me. Having survived the birth ordeal, the next full year was all about recovery for both of us. It was not an easy year by any measure. Both of us eventually healed up physically, but emotionally, I was shot.

It was the second year after that traumatic birth and year of recovery that I completely fell apart, sinking into a pit of depression I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to pull out of. It was a dark time. The family nearly lost me again.

It was in the darkest part of the night, both literally and figuratively, that I heard a deep voice say “Hold on, one more day.” It was as audible as any voice I’d ever heard before, but I didn’t recognize it as someone I knew. I sat up in bed and looked around the room. My husband was there beside me, sound asleep. I squinted into the darkness. Someone was there. Someone said those words to me.

It took a few moments to realize there was not another human in the room. The voice was supernatural. God—or an angel—had come to me personally, audibly, and told me not to give up. The words were exactly what I needed, when I needed them. I held on one more day, then another one, then another one. Eventually, enough one more days passed that I found myself climbing out of the pit and returning to the land of the living. It was a long journey to healing, but God carried me through it, one more day at a time.

Whatever it is, however long the wait, no matter the doubts and discouragement that cloud our belief, I don’t think God has abandoned us. I do believe we will sing a new song.

Andy and I are tired and discouraged right now. Amidst many other more serious concerns in our lives, we wonder—will we finish Walter and hit the road eventually? Probably. Will I finish my book and be able to present it to the world? Most likely. Provided we continue to believe AND get some help to overcome our unbelief, we can continue to move forward.

Could God have other plans for us? Sure. Would they be just as good as the plans we have made? Yes, probably even better. Would we be disappointed at first? Absolutely. For how long? Hard to say. But we will sing, sing a new song.

Just a couple years back, I first heard the song “Keep Holding On” from Eddie Kirkland’s album Kings and Queens. I liked it immediately. It has a great sound, light and clean and simple, and I am always a sucker for unadorned vocal harmonies. I could relate to the first verse about something stirring in my cold heart. When I really listened to the words of the chorus, though, it stopped me in my tracks and made me sit up in bed and look around the room again to see who had just spoken to me.

“The love that fires the furnace of the stars
The love that turns the fury of the storm
The love that lays itself down on our behalf
Is the very love that whispers in my heart:
Keep holding on.”

Keep holding on, friends. Anticipation fatigue is real. Discouragement is real. Unbelief going hand in hand with faith is real. How long? I don’t know. But we will sing, sing a new song.