USA: Moth, rust, and the 16th second

Thinking . . . so much unquantifiable thinking

Leaving the laundry on the clothesline to dry overnight felt wrong. For whatever reason, it seemed more vulnerable in the dark rural Montana night than in the Big Sky’s light of day. But with all the final details of our last week on the property, the day’s to-do list had been lengthy. I’d been to the laundromat at midday, but I don’t put merino wool—our socks and t-shirts—in the dryer. The list of errands had kept me out running all day long, so there’d been no chance to hang out the wet clothes earlier. An owl hooted. Ten o’clock is twilight in this neck of the woods, this close to solstice. I shrugged. In such an arid climate, they would dry just the same without any help from the sun.

After breakfast, I snuck (sneaked?¹) out behind the barn in my summer pjs, covered with a flannel shirt, hoping the new owners of our old house weren’t near their windows. But we had nothing fresh to put on for the day. In preparation for hitting the road, we’ve narrowed down our belongings to only the essentials. Laundry day is the wardrobe reset button, especially for our work clothes.

Sure enough, the clothes were right where I’d left them, still securely fastened to the line. I chuckled at the low-level trepidation I’d felt the night before and began to take down the t-shirts, draping each one over my arm and tucking the weathered wooden clothespins into the crook of my elbow, for lack of pockets.

When I reached up to pull my light green shirt down, I saw a flash of something dark colored fall out of the shirt. Whatever it was proceeded to tumble directly past my hand and into the outstretched long sleeve of my flannel shirt.

It fluttered and banged against my arm.

Nope.

Naturally, I commenced the heebie-jeebie dance, trying to shake it out without dropping my clean clothes and precariously balanced clothespins. A brown and orange moth, medium-sized, fell to the ground, both of us stunned by the sudden turn of events.

I stared at him. He’d been hanging out in my wool shirt. That naughty moth! Of course, I remembered; moths love wool. That’s why our grandmothers’ homes smelled of mothballs. They were trying to keep their fine woolens protected. I checked my shirt for holes. He apparently hadn’t commenced snacking yet. The other shirts were all fine, too. As I took down each sock, I reached inside it with my hand and felt around for any more intruders—a decidedly creepy, but necessary task. Only that one moth had discovered my treasures.

My treasures.

As I walked back to the woodshop, where we were temporarily living, I recalled the words of Jesus recorded in the book of Matthew:

Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in or steal; for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.²

Where is my treasure? Where is my heart?

Earlier that same day, before arriving at the laundromat, I had mishandled a rusty and greasy steel beam. I should have been wearing my one pair of grubby olive-green work pants, but alas, I was on the way to the laundromat, so all my work clothes were bagged up with the other dirties. Andy had to pick up some parts for our travel rig from the fabricator’s shop and the powder coater’s shop, both half an hour down the valley, but we sold his pick-up truck and these parts were too big for my little subcompact Honda so we needed to borrow a pick-up truck from a friend but their truck was full of logs and parts of a portable sawmill and although the keys were in it (it’s Montana) they weren't home so we would need to unload it ourselves but at least the truck-friend lives close to the laundromat so after I helped unload the truck Andy could head down the valley while I did the laundry and got some groceries. Whoosh.

Sorry about that above sentence, but, yeah, our lives have basically been one long run-on sentence without enough punctuation lately.

But back to the steel beam. It was heavy. I held it firmly across my midsection as I carried it—not noticing at first how dirty it was—and got rust and grease all down the front of my one pair of good tan pants.

Where moth and rust destroy.

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Where is my treasure? Where is my heart?

Over the past three years, we have methodically rid ourselves of almost all of our earthly treasures—except our beloved travel rig and the things we want for living in it. We have said more goodbyes and felt more feels than we could have ever imagined. Since I last posted here, we even said goodbye to the woodshop, the official headquarters for so many hopes and dreams over the past two decades—and our rustic home for this past month of June.

Although we haven’t actually left town yet, we’re officially nomads now. Location-independent. No fixed address.

For the last several weeks we’ve been pursuing a seemingly contradictory pair of initiatives:

• Our primary objective has been to finish the truck build so we can hit the road. Building a habitat box on a commercial truck with zero experience and no established set of plans or model to follow is a little crazy. I can’t say either of us would recommend it at this point, but here we are—nearly three years into the project.

• But our secondary objective has been to get rid of all the tools, machinery, and materials (the same things needed to build said truck), so we can vacate the shop by July 1, losing all access to the very space where we do the work, as the new owner is rightfully anxious to have full possession of the property.

Both of these objectives have somehow been pursued simultaneously.

We finished the second one first.³ We will never again sleep on the property I’ve loved since I was a kid; the property where we raised our own family; the property that cost my husband so much blood, sweat, and tears (as well as so much thought—that unquantified cost explored so thoughtfully by Diana Mohrsen this past week over at her Substack) as he built, rebuilt, added on, remodeled, and ran several businesses; the property that could have cost us our marriage if we hadn’t finally learned how to pull together instead of pulling independently. We will never again gaze at the dramatic sunset over “our” peaks and pines. We will never again struggle to climb Crooked Pine Road when it ices over for the winter. We will never again sit under the stars at that campfire pit in the middle of that circle of towering pine trees. We’ve moved on.

With one goal accomplished and the other so very close to completion, I’m especially grateful to have run across Karen Anderson’s Substack post last week about accomplishing a writing goal and then wondering, now what? I encourage you to read the post for yourself, as it is very insightful. I asked her if she would mind me posting the same YouTube video that she used in her own post and she graciously gave her blessing. I highly encourage you to take a moment to watch this valedictorian speech from a well-spoken and wise high school senior:

Where is my treasure? Where is my heart? When we accomplish our primary objective—how will we feel at the 16th second?

I don’t have answers to all these questions. Right now, I’m just exhausted from the sprint to get us moved out of the shop building by July 1. The primary objective still remains ahead of us. As my husband Andy said, “It’s like crawling across the finish line, only to find out you have more laps of the race to go.”

But I am thinking. So much thinking. Thinking about my treasure, my heart, the 16th second. Thinking about our larger objective of meeting people all over the world, blessing them, being blessed by them, recognizing their dignity as people made in the image of God, and sharing their stories with you. Go read Diana’s post about the thinking if you get the chance.

Where is my treasure? Where is my heart?

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7 Questions

I hope you enjoy this segment as much as I do. I love hearing other people’s voices, other people’s thoughts.

This week’s interview is of my dear friend Ruzian Markom, the mother of a Malaysian exchange student we hosted for a semester in 2018. Our families have become friends as a result of the exchange, and we were even invited to attend our exchange daughter’s wedding in Malaysia this past December. Here we are at the wedding with the happy couple—the Malaysian and the American parents of the bride:

Traditional Muslim Malay wedding outside Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Left to right: Andy, Kamarudin, Nik, Hamizah, Ruzian, me)

What an honor! Ruzian and her husband Kamarudin showered us with the most amazing hospitality during our visit, taking us to their tailors to get outfitted, introducing us to new sights, new foods, new friends, and new cultural traditions. It was an amazing experience, the original impetus for our recent three months of backpacking around Southeast Asia from December to March.

Ruzian is a multi-published professor of Islamic financial law at the National University of Malaysia (UKM - Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia). She is widely traveled and loves to study and learn—but most of all, as you will see below, she loves her family.

So, without any further ado, Ruzian Markom:

Where were you born and where do you live now?

• I was born in the small town of Batu Pahat in Johor, West Malaysia. At present, I live in Bandar Baru Bangi in Selangor, West Malaysia.

Of all the names and titles you have answered to over the years, do you have any favorites, and why?

• Mak Yan. It’s just a nickname that my family and my closest friends use to address me. Mak means mother. Yan is from the short name for Ruzian. The title Mak Yan was given to me as I am the youngest aunty in the family. So, all my nephews and nieces address me as this. Then, when my closest friends discovered the name, they preferred the name to show the loving and lasting relationships.

Can you tell me about one person who has had a significant positive impact on your life?

• My mother. She raised me with humility, encouraging curiosity and independent thinking. Her support shaped my values, and I’m forever grateful for her influence.

What feels most like home to you and why?

• Feeling safe and secure. A sense of physical safety is absolutely essential for feeling at home. But I think that it is a sense of emotional safety and security that makes us feel truly at home in a space. 

What is one thing that makes you ridiculously happy?

• Spending time with the loved ones.

What is one thing that makes you terribly sad?

• Losing a loved one due to death, distance, or separation.

What is one important thing you have learned over your lifetime?

• Life is a learning process. Every day is a new chapter of life.

Finally, I asked Ruzian to provide me a photo of her choice and she sent me this recent image from a family gathering. There she is at the center of all the activity, sitting on the sofa, in the heart of the top row with a contented smile:

Ruzian had this to say about the photo (and us):

I think the photo represents myself. I love my family, including you, Andy and the kids forever.

I do hope you, dear reader, can make a cross-cultural friend as gracious as Ruzian. Perhaps in the comments you could tell me about a connection your family has made with someone from far away.

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That’s all for now, friend. It’s been a big week and I’m wiped out. I encourage you to do some thinking this week about where your treasure is, where your heart is, and what to do in the 16th second, after the initial goal has been achieved.

Until next week,

Sherry

P.S.

Big thanks to those of you who have upgraded your free subscription to PAID, in support of our Diesel & Dignity Fund. If you are curious about what happens to the proceeds from this publication, you can read more about it here.

1. Usually, I just avoid the words snuck and sneaked altogether. Neither one sounds right to my ear, but sometimes it’s the right word. Which do you use, and where are you from? Perhaps it is regional.

2. Matthew 6:19-21 (NASB)

3. Accomplishing the second objective before the first leaves us in a bit of pickle—no home, and no truck. Fortunately, a friend with a small RV trailer is allowing us to “trailer sit” for her while she is out of town for this entire week. We’ll figure it out.