USA: It's about that time, y'all
Change can be good--just ask Jim and Judy. (Or was it Jake and Rita?)
Taking a photo of what I could see in my car’s rear view mirror while simultaneously driving on the interstate is not one of the smarter things I’ve done in my life. But the moment was so poignant, so perfect, so symbolic—and I couldn’t pull over because I was part of a caravan.
It was 2004 and we were moving from Vancouver, Washington, to Montana’s Bitterroot Valley to begin the next chapter of our lives. Our nine years in and around Vancouver had been overwhelmingly positive, but we both felt the same strange call1 to move on into an unknown future. When what seemed like a perfect opportunity arose—buying my grandparents’ house in Montana—we were both ready to pursue it.
Saying goodbye to the life we’d created in the Vancouver area, though, was tough. Andy and I had moved there in 1995, only a couple of years into your young marriage. During our nine years there, we had made amazing friends, connected with a church, volunteered in various ministry positions, became parents, started a business, and bought our first house. In many ways, Vancouver, Washington was where Andy and I grew into full-fledged adulthood.
I was 34 when we said goodbye to our Pacific Northwest life. When it came time to go, I made little wooden keychains for my dear friends and took the time to verbalize to each of them how they had impacted my life. Here’s an excerpt from “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Mom”, my original blog I wrote back then, which served as a digital journal of sorts:
I spent last night at a friend's house. She put together an overnighter for my good friends from the MOMS group and me to be able to hang out and enjoy each other one last time. When I got home, I sat and cried for a long time. What beautiful friends I have. As one friend put so eloquently, my life has so much more color in it now, as a result of these people. Black and whites faded to grays, and are now bursting forth in vibrant color. I was anxious to sit down and blog to help process some of what I was feeling. But here I am staring at my monitor. Words usually flow easily for me, but my heart is so full. What can I even say? It's too much.
We had a picnic in the park and invited everyone to come to say goodbye. So many hugs and tears.
I drove around town on a last-minute photo safari to capture images of all the places that were special to me. Again, an excerpt from my old blog:
I'm starting to feel the reality that we're moving. I've been dealing with the grief of leaving people since well, January, when we decided to do it. But all of a sudden I'm feeling the loss of the place, as well. Everything I see as I drive around town triggers a flood of memories, memories of every experience I've had since I've been here. I'm not trying to do this, mind you, it's just happening.
Funny, I just started to list several of the simple places I've passed in recent days and briefly mention the story that goes with each one. After filling several paragraphs in no time flat, I erased it all. My brain was going into hyper-speed. That's how I feel when I drive around these days. There is so much filling my brain that I can't take it all in. I do better to stare straight ahead and pay attention to the traffic around me. Probably safer anyway.
With all the farewells said, we packed up the vehicles, drew in one last deep breath of firs and cedars and rhododendrons and blackberry vines, blew it back out again, and drove away.
Once we had passed the last bit of urban sprawl of the Portland area headed east on I-84 toward Montana, I happened to glance at the driver’s side mirror of my trusty Jeep Cherokee. There it was—majestic Mt. Hood, still snowcapped in July, perfectly framed behind me. We didn’t have phones with good cameras yet in 2004, so I carefully got an old-school camera out and snapped a poor-quality photo awkwardly as I drove, glad the kids in the backseat were preoccupied with the dog instead of paying attention to my bad example. That’s the photo, back up at the beginning of this post.
Mt. Hood on a clear day, in all its glory, is an iconic image for residents of the Pacific Northwest. It represents all that is beautiful about that region and its nature-loving residents. In 1995, it had represented our big dream of getting out of Southern California, into a place known for its natural beauty and outdoorsy lifestyle—a place we thought would be ideal to raise a family. But at that moment, on that day in 2004, it was in the rearview mirror, part of my past. A new dream lay ahead:
Montana.
We would own the property there from 2004 until 2023, then camp there—in the apartment, on the RV pad, inside the woodshop—for another year after we sold.
And that brings us up to the present—again saying goodbye to the old dream so we can pursue a new one. The new dream, that of being global nomadic overlanders, is so close we can almost taste it. But pursuing it comes at a cost.
In order to pursue a big dream—an enormous dream, a life-changing dream—you must let go of the old dreams.
Last week, I wrote about my internal struggle to let go of our big engagement photo, the last of our large-scale pieces of memorabilia. It’s so big I didn’t think anyone else would want it, but fortunately, one of our kids spoke for it. It will go to a good home. Today, the other of our kids claimed Andy’s woodworking portfolio, a leather album full of photos of some of his finest work over the years of being a furniture maker and wood artist. It, too, will live on.
The rest of what’s left is just stuff. We’ve already done the hard work of letting go of nearly all the other important things. They had to go. You can’t wholeheartedly pursue a big new dream without letting go of the old dreams.
Small changes for big reasons
Sometimes you just have to change a name to better fit the situation. Both our kids have changed their names to better match their new identities. My high school friend K.C. is Ken as an adult. It always takes a while for me to make the switch to a new name and not accidentally revert to the old one, but I do adjust eventually.
When we lived in Vancouver, I knew a woman named Judy Borscht. One day she showed up at an event under the name Judy Stewart. No, she had not divorced, she explained. Apparently, her husband of many years, James (Jim) Borscht, had never liked his last name. At the time of his father's death, Jim was going through a bit of a mid-life crisis and was ready to make some big changes. He asked Judy if, for their anniversary, rather than exchanging the usual gifts, she would be willing instead to change their last name together. He wanted to honor his mother, whose maiden name was Stewart.
After thinking it over and seeing how important it was to Jim, Judy agreed to the change. Jim and Judy Borscht would become Jim and Judy Stewart. No problem.
But that wasn't all. Jim didn't want to be teased about being "Jimmy Stewart." Would she mind if he changed his first name, too? He'd always liked the name Jake. Hesitantly, she approved. Jim and Judy Borscht would become Jake and Judy Stewart. No problem. Afterall, she loved him dearly and wanted to make him happy.
But that wasn't all. Jim (now Jake) had never really seen her as a Judy. Would she mind changing her first name, too? He'd always thought of her as more of a Rita. Judy drew the line there. Love only goes so far.
Would she mind, then, if he at least called her Rita as a sort of pet name? She decided that would be ok, if it would make him happy. Jim and Judy Borscht would become (at least to him) Jake and Rita Stewart.
When they sent their photo Christmas cards out that year, they signed them simply "Jake and Rita." More than a few of their friends were baffled.
Today is my 52nd consecutive Tuesday post here on Beauty and Truth Weekly (plus the one bonus edition from Easter this year). I’ve come a long way from where I started one year ago. I set out to write here weekly for a year, and as of today, I’ve accomplished it.
I don’t want to confuse anyone like Jim and Judy (aka Jake and Rita) did, but next week starts the new chapter here on this bloggy-newslettery-Substacky thing. We are very near our departure for our nomadic future, and the new look and feel to the posts will soon reflect that. But the name I started with, Beauty and Truth Weekly, just doesn’t fit with the future of this publication. In order to start something new, you have to let go of the old.
Remember this 1990 classic? It’s about that time, y’all.
Very soon, this Substack will be about taking Walter, our big yellow diesel truck, all over the USA and the world. We look forward to meeting people, hearing their stories, blessing and being blessed by them, and learning more about life in general. We will seek to show the inherent dignity of people from all walks of life, from all over the world, all made in the image of God. Diesel and Dignity.
As I mentioned last week, the new format will allow you to partner with us financially, by becoming a paid subscriber. Most of that money will be held in a fund to meet people’s dignity-related needs as we come across them, while a diminishing percentage of it will be used for putting fuel in Walter, our truck. To review, these will be your options if you decide to move to a paid subscription:
$6 MONTHLY SUPPORTER—less than the cost of two lattes at your favorite drive-through. This is great for people who aren’t sure they could maintain a monthly expense over time, or just want to see how this goes before committing longer-term.
$54 ANNUAL SUPPORTER—which averages out to $4.50 per month, a significant amount for many people in the world, but not that much for most Americans. Paying annually is not only a cheaper option, but also simplifies things for both of us.
$75, $100, $200+ ANNUALLY (“FOUNDING MEMBER” STATUS)—paying more than is asked, just because you want to, is rad—radical, revolutionary, and just plain cool. Plus, it comes with occasional personalized hand-written postcards from me as we travel.
Subscribers who do not wish to partner with us financially, as well as those who can’t move to paid YET, but would like to consider it in the future, will still receive these weekly posts in their email inbox every Tuesday morning.
I’m excited to be on the road and report back here with stories and insights from our experiences. I’m so ready to be DONE with this loooong goodbye.
We are so close, friends. You may be growing weary of hearing about the changes to come and the nomadic life that looms ahead, just out of reach. Believe me, I’m tired of writing about it. We are tired of living in the almost.
Soon and very soon.
Goodbye Beauty and Truth Weekly. Hello, Diesel & Dignity.
Until next week,
Sherry
It was the strangest thing. We can’t recall who brought it up first, but one day Andy and I both awoke, out of the blue, feeling like we would be ready to move if there were a reason to do so. We liked where we lived, had good friends and a good church and a house we loved. However, we both had the strangest sensation that it might be time to go. We just didn’t know where or why.
For fun, we began to brainstorm where we would like to live and decided it would ideally still be in the northwest quadrant of the USA, near mountains and/or a river or large body of water, have a climate with four distinct seasons, and plenty of year-round sunshine. Spokane was on our radar as a place that checked all the boxes and was affordable, but we still didn’t know why we should move.
Only a couple weeks later, my grandfather, recently widowed, announced he was putting the property in western Montana up for sale. The extended family was heartbroken at the thought of losing the favorite vacation place, but none of them wanted to relocate. Andy and I looked at each other. It checked all our boxes and answered the why. We shrugged, smiled, nodded, and bought it.
Our house in Vancouver immediately sold for our full asking price before we could even get it listed.
Wow! You folks are brave. That is such a major life-changing decision. I'm looking forward to your future blogs under a new name. All the best to you in your new adventure!