Five Things A Recent Glamping Trip Taught Me About Life

On a recent Glamping trip with The Patient One, the kiddos,  and close friends, I learned a lot about life, the gospel, and of course some truths about Glamping.

1. Glamping requires a return to simplicity.

Our glamping vehicle was lovingly named the tinaminium (spell check does not recognize this as a word). It was a rented camper that provided many creature comforts (therefore the loose refence to the “minium” in the term of endearment, tinaminium. Condo’s bring some form of luxury to mind. I digress. What’s new.

Life lived under the brilliant stars and the ebony black sky is exhilarating. The air feels cleaner, the stars are brighter, and many of life’s accoutrements are left at home. This is by design, in order to do life differently, and due to a lack of space. They are somehow not missed at all. (well accept for the long hot showers and the strong internet signal). We packed high thread count sheets and white linen table cloths and our ipads. That’s why its called Glamping sillies.

2. It is important to love your neighbor as yourself, while at your glampsite. (spell check doesn’t know this word either.)

This means don’t run your generator when others are sleeping because it is loud and bothersome. It is important to be a good neighbor because you are parked very close to your neighbor, therefore any of the fruits of the spirit which you didn’t leave at home should be used in dealing with  communicating with others.

For example, if your neighbor’s campsite is in close proximity to the door of your home-on-wheels and the  smoke is wafting into your tiniminium, causing you to be engulfed
in smoke   slightly inconvenienced, its best to be a good neighbor by moving your vehicle out of the smoke’s way.  It is much simpler and kinder than asking them to a. move their camp fire b. extinguish their campfire c. use different firewood that doesn’t smoke up the entire neighborhood.

3.Glampsites are a breeding ground for good story-telling and honing your listening skills.

Writers love stories, and I love writing, therefore, I love stories.  I love listening to them, digesting them, processing them, and writing them.  That must be why I love glamping so much.  Because they are a breeding ground for story. Wait that may have been a leap, or I may have loosely connected the dots there on point 3.

Time stood still, as Time does when you are engrossed in a good story, so I don’t know how long I listened to a new “friend”, my glampsite neighbor tell me an amazing story of his life.  He is a writer and I am a writer so naturally we talked for a very long time.  And I will be writing more of his story here on these pages after I have asked his permission to re-tell.  It is his story not mine, so I’d like to request permission before pressing publish here on the blog.

What I can tell you, is it was rich and deep and heartbreaking.  I can tell you that his story is filled with redemption, hope, and C.S. Lewis’ “Mere Christianity.” I can tell you that the strength and perserverance that it took to live through his pain, heal from his pain, and ultimately choose to share his story, well they inspire. And they are a beautiful story of forgiveness, healing, and love.

(I did not expect this story to come sit in my lap and pierce my heart while Glamping. Did I mention that I was surprised often while on this Glamping trip.)

And I can tell you if I hadn’t gone Glamping, I wouldn’t have met my new “friend”.  He called out to me and asked me to sit and talk to him while he breaded shrimp for the fryer.  He said  “I am a little OCD about this process.”  That is why we had an inordinate amount of time together, talking and listening over three pounds of shrimp being breaded. It was time very well-spent.

I also sat and chatted with a neighbor from home and learned that she had lost both of her parents this past year.  I have known her for 17 years, we live in the same small town, we have children the same age and I didn’t know that her mother and father had both died this year.

Her story caused me to stare into her eyes and listen with all I have.  There is more to her story than I can share until I ask, but losing parents in one condensed time frame has to be deeply painful.  She and I have made plans to go paddle boarding together.  I have another “new” friend because of glamping.

4. Glamping creates the need to be dependent on one another for “survival.”

We dragged a lot of stuff with us, but we still didn’t prepare well enough.  Our friends, not the ones in the glamper with us but the ones in a tent down the way, prepared better than we did in the food (protein) department.  Because they are kind, generous, and really good cooks, gifted really in the culinary arts, we ate like Kings and Queens.  We “lived” off of their grill and their kindness.  Well, I can’t speak for anyone else.  I did. And food tastes better when its prepared on a new $700 grill which is transported out to a glampsite for the weekend.  And food tastes better when it is eaten out-of- doors in the cool fresh air. In fact, a lot of things are better out-of-doors on a plantation in the middle of nowhere.  We know it was nowhere because the GPS couldn’t find it.

5. Friendship is better in close quarters (and friendships grow deep roots in the dark)

When Glamping, your generator must be turned on in order to have light. Well sometimes its just best to preserve your power and sit in the dark. Especially when it is late at night, and music from the music festival is serenading you on a Saturday night, on a quail hunting plantation, on a cool May night, in your tinaminium with a really close friend. Actually, your super-glue friend, your accountability partner and your sister-in-Christ. The dark can be good for sharing life, your heart, and having good momma time.

The dark of night can breed intimacy in friendship. And living in very close quarters could test the best of friendships. But this one survived and may have been made stronger. Many of our friends have walk in closets bigger than this space the four of us shared for a weekend.

Because we like to laugh, we imagined that Jesus could have written a parable teaching us how to treat others in a glamping campsite. We studied the parables in our Bible Study this fall, so they were still front and center in our frontal lobe parts. We had a stranger come to our door during that dark of night, generator off, talking heart to heart time. He scared us. We think we missed an opportunity to be kinder and gentler to him than we were. Did I mentioned he scared us? He had the wrong door, its like the wrong number when you call someone. He was looking for friends. They were staying in the tinaminium next door. Did I mention he scared us.( Well startled would be more accurate.) We pointed him in the right direction. But we didn’t offer him a meal or a kind word. And we weren’t particularly good neighbors. We felt like those in the parable of the Good Samaraitan who passed by the guy laying in the ditch. You know, the ones who didn’t help. Well we pointed him in the right direction. He just had the wrong camper.

Maybe we’ll get a second chance to “do unto others” on our next Glamping trip. Maybe we’ll get a do-over in the do-unto others department. We can only hope.

And there will be another. Even though the showers are short and sweet, and the creature comforts are few and far between, even with a loud generator.

Who doesn’t love the chance to hear stories under the blue sky days out in the middle of a field. And to live more simply.

There is much to learn out under the stars, and clouds, huddled by your camper with friends and family.

I wish I hadn’t stopped with five things I learned, though you may be.

wishing His grace….

When Grace Appears….In A Southern Side Yard, After The Rain

Don’t forget to pray today because God did not forget to wake you up this morning.

–Oswald Chambers

Prayer is simple, prayer is supernatural, and to anyone not related to our Lord Jesus Christ, prayer is apt to look stupid.

–Oswald Chambers

If I obey Jesus Christ in the seemingly random circumstances of life, they become pinholes through which I see the face of God.

–Oswald Chambers


{ all photographs taken by wynnegraceappears and while a watermark is not present, they are a part of this blog. Thank you for your consideration.}

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wishing grace on this Sabbath and for all to be beautiful, after the rain.

Can’t Go Around It, Must Go Through It

Do you remember Red Rover. Did you play the game as a child where you called out “Red Rover, Red Rover….” to the opposing wall of linked-armed children? This is a game I remember well.

But what I remember most is the phraseology of the child’s game that went something like this– can’t go over it, can’t go around it, can’t go under it, must go through it. And so with steely eyes, and a huffing and puffing of all my might, and as much determination as a grade schooler can muster up, I would go running toward the chain link fence of gangly arms and attempt to break through. If you played this you remember the feeling of bouncing off the flesh and falling down on the ground, defeated and giggling if you failed. But if you won… well you were prideful, and pompous and celebrated the victory. You had smashed through the linked arms, broken the wall of defenses and crashed through the best efforts of your peers.

Dread has moved in, invaded my space, and is encroaching on my personal bubble. Do you know that space that is yours alone into which no one is allowed to enter? Dread is there. She is causing me to feel uncomfortable. She is robbing me of Peace. Dread steals Hope and belief in the best outcome. But what magnifies the discomfort is that I have given her space in my heart. Just handed it to to her. Dread, you may have a big chunk of me today. Take what you need.

So like the child whose turn it is to run the gauntlet of linked flesh and bone, I usher Dread out the front door, withdraw the invitation she sneakily stole to the party which is my life, and I run with Hope.

That which I dread, I have to run through. I can’t go over, around, or under. I will walk through it knowing that through Him all things are possible.

I may hurt. I may sting. I may feel disappointment. But I choose not to dread.

I choose Bold. I choose Courage. I choose God’s hand in mine, linked as I run into the wall, into the
obstacles.

I have over a half a century of life to look back on and see that He was there. Lifting me, encouraging me, carrying me, and teaching me.

With Him, we will toss Dread under the proverbial bus. We will take back that which she has stolen. We will set a place with fresh flowers and fine linens at the table of life for Hope. And open the books to learn all that He has for me from this chapter.

This is not a child’s game, this running the gauntlet of life. And I am not Brave, like a grown-up. I do not have Courage, like a mature adult facing the challenges of life. But rather,I am like a child nestled in my fear. I am vulnerable and scared. I long for someone else to take my turn. I wait until I have to go, to go and face the wall. I want to be last. Or worse, not go at all– into the wall.

But through Him all things are possible. in adversity and in challenge. So I grab the hand of the Friend of the Afraid and say, let’s run hard, this race together. I am white-knuckling the hand of The One Who Made Me and relying on His strength to knock down Dread.

And as I release Worry and release Distrust, I slowly gain Peace. And I gain the knowledge that right there in the bruised flesh from striving and straining against the wall, He sits with open arms. Right there as I tumble down, not laughing nor giggling in a pile of defeat, He is there to wipe the tear. He comforts me. He embraces me. He dusts me off so I can get back into the game with renewed Hope and renewed Courage.

And this time He has ushered the school-yard bully Dread, off the playground. I have called on His name. I have yielded my struggle to Him. I have sought help from The Advocate. And I am not afraid.

Can’t go around it, must go through it. Let’s Go God.

My Favorite One

I don’t know why this is my favorite one.  

But it sings to my soul.  Gentle.  Sweet.  Tender. This picture.  On the surface it’s really nothing special.  But to this momma it is filled with foreshadowing.  It knows so much.  It holds so much within its frame of what will always be.

There is this  perpetual path that leads  out and away.  And this reminds me so plainly in its black and white way that it is daily and it is certain….

There is a breaking away with bits of us. Pieces and parts of the ones that held hard with blood and often tears. Or held on hard in hope and with prayer.  Or held on to deep longlng for with trust and an assurance. That He gives us gifts.  Including these.  These children.  We steward their lives.  Watching over.  Guarding.  Protecting and sheltering.  While a slow and steady breaking away rips and tears and takes.   We give.  We give in love.  Sacrificially.  Lovingly.  Sometimes with teeth clenched, and hands white knuckling love.  We loose the grip and allow the breaking.

We say good bye, hundreds of times.  We hear the door shut, the gravel rumble and tires spin.  We see the backs of the head.  The backside of lives.  Off to school, off to play, off to camp, off to war- to fight the battles of their day.  Off to joy, off to pain, off to just be and suck on slushies.  Or to just be over a slice of pizza at youth group. To talk of life with trusted adults about how to navigagte the seas in a rocking boat. How to be wise and brave.

But the back turned, facing away, toward the sea.  Turned away.  Turned from me. Its what I see as beauty. The head down looking on the path.  Avoiding splinters in the barefeet.  Or avoiding worse pain. The hands held in love.  For security.  Held like three strands of a braid.  Holding like we all do to another.  To steady.  To balance.  To feel warm blood rushing through another, to sense the pulse of someone else. Huddled up.  Grouped up.

That with all the teaching and preaching and telling, showing, explaining, admonishing, cajoling they will navigate more on their own everyday of their lives.  Every day brings them closer to independence.  Every day takes them a step away from this home.

I have a deep assurance that they won’t ever go too far, or be gone too long, or have long periods of absence.  In this short term. But life could really take them far and wide and oceans of space could separate us one day. I trust.  I release. And I pray that God keeps them tethered tightly to this momma. Leaving is natural.  Going is part of living.

But there are those who sacrifice and release in ways that I will probably never have to.

We have known one such mother very briefly.  Time is hard to measure.  How long were we in her presence.? Time stood still.  Each moment of joy magnified time.  New and tender mercies take all attention.  Time has no form of measurement.  It is a blur. Heart pounding joy stops clocks, stops the earth.  Stops all but the joy moment.  It calls all things to itself to be and watch and listen in love.

She impacts my life daily.  Her love and her releasing take my breathe away. Her life touched mine. Then changed mine forever.

She is sacrifice.  She is love.  She is the birthmother of our son.

It has been 17 and a half years since I stood in a room and had her pass in love indescribable her son, our son, into my arms.  How God orchestrates a moment like this leaves me numb in love. Seeing brave bold love and looking it right in the eyes changes. It writes on a place in your insides.  It carves deep lettering in the flesh and right on the heart wall.  It scribbles out love, selfless love.  It carves out stark and plain and simple. A deep giving of tremendous sacrifice.

I don’t know brave that speaks like this.  I can’t find places where I can show gratitude and gratefulness here at Mother’s Day, for her.  I can only tell her story in a shadow, but tell it boldy and proclaim the enormous space it takes up in my heart.

She turned and walked out of our lives 17 years ago.  But she left a mark. A precious child.  I know she would look on him becoming a man and I know she’d see him through momma’s eyes as I, that he is fine.  And he is special.  And he is love with flesh and bones walking.  He will do and be great things. He knows he is loved.  He knows God.

Happy Mother’s day to a kind, brave, and generous birthmother.  We love him deep and wide.  And if you could look right there, you would see, in black and white,that he is loved by one adoring brother. And by one adoring sister. And hovering in the background, one momma too.

Its a favorite one. I just had to share.

Mother’s Day is really something more, its Givers Day and humble Receivers Day. To all the Givers and all the Receivers of life, and children. And love.  Happy Day.

{This photograph was taken by Gail Lunn many/several years ago!! I am grateful.  She is talented. Thank you for this wonderful favorite picture, Gail}