To Go. Or not.

Life continues.

Oversized tires and rough terrain fit our gypsy needs perfectly. Mark and I’s new found hobby of exploring the backroads with a forced dependency on our batteries for power, was proving to be fun. We had always loved camping. Overlanding is a combo of high wheel based adventure and deep-in-the-forest solitude. But not when you have three grand girls in tow. Solitude evaporates and the word adventure is the lone survivor.

One month ago, London (who had just been crowned a teen,) our lovely Lucy, and feisty five-year old Ellie Mae became members of the Tedder expedition as we overnighted with them in the Rockies. They were tougher than I thought. I was proud of them and they brought much laughter to our pioneering camp.

This week we headed back out again. Two nights to the west but this time it was only Mark and I. We needed to detach. The world had become a terrifying place and oh, so quickly. Lucy’s leukemia diagnosis had devastated us. Managing the stress of being back in Colorado now and knowing the scary road that lay ahead for our Arkansas kids wasn’t easy. Camping felt like a good escape. It wouldn’t solve anything. But maybe it would help.

I dreaded the inevitable reliving of those fresh family moments we had created with the girls though. I also knew that our soul’s doomed destroyer would have to be slayed out the wilderness at some point during this trip. But regardless, we hooked up the Rog. The articulating hitch was secure. We were ready. It was time to camp again.

The cozy sleeping cabin would be empty of girly giggles and carefree childhood ridiculousness. There would be an absence of endless card games with the eldest while the littles pretended to be princess warriors, hopping from granite boulder to boulder like mountain goats. Insatiable appetites would not drive the day’s menu. And poking a stick through a round, dry cow poo patty and toasting it over an open fire, shouldn’t be a temptation for us.

But we hadn’t even pulled out onto Hwy. 24 heading west and already I was getting misty eyed. My ear’s memory could hear Lucy’s triumphant voice. With the slightest British accent added for drama, she proclaimed loud enough for the woodland creatures to hear;

“G, pooping in the woods is something truly grand!”

Was it even possible now for us to relax enough to enjoy the Created order? How could we in this sad season? Was camping forever tainted with dread?

Descending from over 12,000 feet, we, like waters to the Pacific, flowed with the ‘s’ curves that swirled down from Cottonwood Pass. There was no one else on the road. It was silent and still. The mountain was ours. We rolled down the truck windows. Thin with altitude, the air was fresh. Its crispness cooled down the quiet cab. We breathed it in, holding one another’s hand, ever so lightly.

The Colorado vista extended beyond our windscreen. From left to right, majesty prevailed. Gravity insisted that the valley floor receive all the waters from higher up. Snow melt, bubbling springs, and summer’s showers each contributed until a dark blue lake appeared below. It broke up the monochrome DNA of meadowy tans and browns. It was named Taylor Park Reservoir. She was deep. And she slept peacefully but coldly between the long mountain ranges that ran beside her.

Taylor was our destination. Somewhere down in the distance, we prayed, lay the peace of God and a comfy campsite. We just needed to find it.

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Please continue to pray for Lucy but her big people need covering too. They are: Mommy, Daddy, G, Grandude, Mimi, Pops, Uncles, Aunties, Cousins, 2 Great Grandmas, and 1 Great Grandpa.

#ilovelucy

#nomoreleukemia