Such had been the history of the old man. His life had come up from the
wilderness, the buried past…The potent mystery of old events had passed
around him, and the magic light of dark time fell across him.

Like all men in this land, he had been a wanderer, an exile on the immortal
earth. Like all of us he had no home.

—Thomas Wolfe
___________________

The question seemed innocuous enough, when I first saw it. Posted on an online forum as I was scrolling by. I barely gave it a passing glance. But then I stopped. Scrolled back up. I saw the words again, absorbed them. Read them again, slowly, to make sure I wasn’t missing something. It was a simple question. And it simply asked, exactly as follows: Staying home from church when you could otherwise go is a sin: Yes or No.

I don’t usually get ensnared by little polls like that. It’s just not worth the hassle or the energy it takes to get involved. People get all fired up. Not that my opinion means or matters much, I guess, except to myself. Lately, though, I’ve engaged a bit more. And that day, I stopped and looked at the responses. And I was shocked to see that the vote was about 60/40, leaning the wrong way. Those sixty percent, they said, yes. Yes. It is a sin. It was a Reformed site, so I don’t know if they were talking venial sin, or mortal. Venial, probably. Or maybe that’s just a Catholic thing. But still, bottom line. Most people in the poll said it was a sin not to go to church when you could otherwise go.

And I thought about it. And I thought to myself. What’s wrong with you people? What kind of bondage are you in? Why do you insist on dragging such chains around? Why do you burden yourself with all that legal jargon? It’s like that big pack Christian lugged around on his back in Pilgrim’s Progress. You don’t have to carry it. Let it go, let it fall from you. And I just couldn’t help myself. I staked out my territory, big and bold, in my response. And short, too. I spoke it like I saw it, like I’d speak it again, about anywhere it could be spoken. Just a few words: It is most definitely NOT a sin not to go to church.

Well. My little assertion did not go over so nice. The responses were polite and good-humored, mostly. They just disagreed or went off on little bunny trails. Maybe it’s just a fault and not a sin, one commenter suggested cheerfully. Would I agree? Nope, I would not. And I kept insisting. I never said you shouldn’t go to church. I’m saying it’s not a sin not to go. We are free to go, or not. A few responses weren’t very polite. They were harsh and dismissive. If I chose not to attend church, then my heart wasn’t where it needed to be. I wasn’t right with God, I was resisting the spirit, by not assembling with believers. Whatever that means. And back and forth we went, me and one surly guy who seemed particularly perturbed at my obstinance. He didn’t change my mind. And I can say with some certainty that I didn’t change his.

We didn’t get much done that day, I don’t think, to convince each other of anything. Me and the surly one. Still. I’ve mulled over the issue a lot, since it came at me. My mind goes to all sorts of cobwebbed places. And those places are all connected by one thing. Almost all my adult life has been one long struggle, one lonely and weary slog through all sorts of rocky and harsh terrain. A protracted and relentless quest in pursuit of one simple goal. To break the shackles of legalism and walk free. Mine wasn’t a relentless pursuit of perfection, like the old Lexus commercials used to say. It was a relentless pursuit of freedom. And if you think it’s a sin not to go to church when you otherwise could, well, I have a few things to tell you.

If it’s a sin to skip your church, or any church service, anywhere, for any reason or none, if that’s a sin, I might as well pack up my things. I might as well sell my Jeep, Amish Black, for what the market will cough up on short notice. And I might as well sell all my English clothes and gather up a goodly supply of those awful barn door pants. And galluses. And shirts without pockets. I might as well go buy a Beaver brand black Sunday hat and a new Mutza suit. I might as well move back to Bloomfield, Iowa, and rejoin the Amish. Or Goshen, Indiana. I guess it don’t matter where. The Amish would still take me back, providing I was properly penitent, with downcast eyes and sorrowful face.

If it’s a sin not to go to any church on any given Sunday for any reason or none, I might as well go back to living under the law. Because that’s exactly what you’re doing, if you ever, ever go to church because it would be a sin not to. You’re living in fear of negative sanctions. Punishment. If you don’t walk right, the Lord will smack you down. He’s just waiting for you to fall, to fail. And you’ll pay when you do. Maybe you’ll even lose your salvation, if you’re not more careful. The horror is real. That’s how it feels when you’re living under bondage and in despair. That’s how it feels to be chained and shackled to the law.

You may or may not attend a church for many reasons, including no reason. Whether those reasons are actually valid is between you and God. Look to your own heart. Your reasons for attending might be as wrong as you figure mine are for not. I know how it is, not to go to church. I’ll never forget those dark and brutal days back in 2007, right after Ellen and I blew up our marriage. I quit going to the church we were attending, the early version of Chestnut Street Chapel, there in Gap behind the clock tower. I told my friends there. I’m leaving. I’ll be around, but I won’t be back until I’m ready, when and if that ever happens. And to a person, every one of my friends at Chestnut Street accepted what I told them. They didn’t preach or tell me I was sinning. Every single one of them respected my wish to be left alone. I hunkered down at home. Home and work. That was my world in those days.

I’ve thought about it many times, since. How many churches would have been that understanding? How many groups would have extended the grace I saw and felt from my “family” at Chestnut Street? Not a lot, I don’t think. There are protocols to follow, formulas to plug in. If a brother strays, go admonish him. Do this, say that, and tell him how it is. Show him the Scripture where it tells you to do what you’re doing, admonishing him. All in love, of course. Chestnut Street was young enough and raw enough that there weren’t any established procedures for running after and pestering a backsliding brother who wouldn’t “come to church.” I wanted to be left alone. They left me alone. I knew they were there, if and when I was ever ready to return. They stood aside in silence. That’s one of the hardest things to do. They gave me my space without judgment and without condemnation. Sometimes real Christian love is such a simple thing as that.

I didn’t walk away from church entirely. Just Chestnut Street. Somehow, I eventually wandered into the structured magnitude of space that is Westminster Presbyterian Church, over on Oregon Pike. A huge sanctuary with lots of seating, and a balcony on three sides. I got to going to that place about half regular. I always walked in just a moment before the service started. Walked up the stairs and way back to a far corner of the loft. And there I sat, alone, and listened to the worship. The people there sure liked to sing, seemed like. And I sat in that back corner and listened to the preacher preach. Dr. Michael Rogers was a plump and learned man, dressed in a formal black robe. High Church, compared to where I was from. And Dr. Rogers was a faithful servant of God. He simply preached the gospel. He never had any idea of who I was or that I was even there. I soaked in his words, took them with me and absorbed them in the daily grind I was slogging through. And I never let anyone near me in that place, there at Westminster. I always got up as they were singing the last song and walked out of there.

I can’t remember that I got to know more than a handful of people’s names in that congregation during all that time, during all those days when I was wandering pretty far out there in the wilderness of life and all that life can be sometimes. I expected nothing from those people at Westminster. Still, during that time in the wilderness, I heard one lone voice as I heard no other. And that was the voice of Dr. Rogers, standing up there in his black robe, faithfully proclaiming the gospel. That right there was a powerful and significant thing, in retrospect. Much more so than I could possibly grasp in the moment.

I was about as unsupervised and unaccountable as I could have been. You always hear wise trite things about accountability. How you got to have it, to walk right with God. Well, I didn’t have it. I’m not saying accountability is wrong. I’m all for it. But I am saying there are times when most of us slog along without it. As I was walking in that moment. I didn’t go to the services at Westminster when I didn’t feel like it. Sometimes, the day was too hard, the road too long to get there. Sometimes, I didn’t see the inside of that church or any other for weeks on end.

My world was bleak and desolate. And when you’re stuck in such a world, you simply absorb the desolation around you. You feel it, taste it, hold it close to you. Trace it all the way down to its roots, and then you slowly start pushing it back. Working your way out. And that was me, in those days. When I didn’t feel like going to church, I didn’t go. When I didn’t feel like hearing Dr. Rogers preach, I didn’t. As Thomas Wolfe would say. Was all this lost? Or to rephrase Wolfe. Was all that a sin? To stay away from church, when I otherwise could have gone? If you are sitting under preaching or teaching that such a thing is a sin, you are in bondage. I don’t know of any clearer way to speak it. That right there is bondage. Get out. Walk free.

I go to church regularly. Chestnut Church, out on Vintage Road. We moved from behind the Gap clock tower out into the country, to a real nice church house that got gifted to us. There, I “assemble with believers” because I want to, not because it would be a sin if I didn’t. And there at Chestnut Church, Pastor Mark Potter faithfully proclaims the gospel every Sunday. Patiently, persistently, joyfully, he proclaims. He keeps insisting that the church is a hospital, not a country club. And there is one particular refrain the man has hammered hard over the years, like a blacksmith at his forge. About addictions. Pastor Mark preaches like he always has. And he says. When you are a child of God, nothing can ever make you not be. Nothing. And so it’s safe to bring your problems to God. Tell Him. He’s your father. He’ll never get tired of listening. And if there are things in life too hard to face, if the pain is too intense, if you drown reality in alcohol or drugs, well, bring that to Him, too. Try to stop. Tell Him you want to. And try. If you fail, try again. Talk to Him again. And try again. And again. And again, and again.

What does what Pastor Mark preached have to do with going to church or not? Not a whole lot, I guess. Still, it triggered something in my memory. And thus a little bunny trail back to last summer, when I was drinking as heavy as I had in a long time. Hard. Every day. And there were a few Sundays when I woke up and the last thing I wanted to do was go face anyone at church. I didn’t feel guilty or anything. I just didn’t feel good. Well, as you don’t, when you’re all bloated and sluggish. And so I just stayed home, those Sundays. Slept in a bit, even though my sleep was extremely broken in those days. And by late afternoon, I was ready to head out and start the process all over again, to dull some of that intense inner pain. And I did, like clockwork. Every day.

And I often thought about it back then, hearing the good Pastor’s words about talking to God and trying again and again. Yeah. A fat lot of good that’s done me. Talking. Or trying. Over the years, I have tried and tried and tried to quit drinking. I even stopped, cold, a few times. The longest I ever quit was just over two years, back in 2006-07. It was one of the last-ditch things I did, to “save my marriage.” Quit drinking. It saved nothing. And after my world blew up, the lure of the whiskey, those shades of delicious amber fire, drew me right back to the bottle.

It’s all so easy to rationalize, the reasons why. I have seen hard and broken roads and so much sorrow and loss. Plus, I write. Writers drink to dull the pain of what they have seen and lived. And relived, in the writing. The real ones do, anyway, the ones I like to read. (Or they did, back when they were alive. Wolfe drank heavily, right up to his extremely unfortunate and untimely end.) That’s the crutch I used. And I settled in my cups, pouring vodka and scotch on the rocks from bottle after bottle, day after day, year after weary year.

The thing is, Pastor Mark never told me I was “sinning.” He told me I was God’s child, and that nothing could make me not be. And he told me to try again. Not directly, as in getting in my face. But in his sermons, he told me. Try again. And again, after that. And again. And again. It got so that I barely heard him when he spoke those repetitious words. Yes. It was nice that he thought God could or would help. But it just was what it was, with the whiskey and me. We were connected for life, I figured. And sure, it was a choice. I never claimed or thought anything else. But it was a choice I didn’t feel much motivated to change.

Until it all changed, kind of on its own. I wrote about it after it happened. I decided, one Tuesday evening back in late August. After I talked to the guys about it, at our Bible Study. I need to do something about the whiskey. I’m not sure how or what. Later that night, I decided. Tonight, I won’t have a drink. And the next day, that day I didn’t have one, either. And things just took off from there. It’s approaching nine months, now. It’s still for today, for tonight, and maybe tomorrow. Not much further out than that. Just enough to keep walking without a lot of inner noise or stress. So, nine months it’s been, this new stretch of road. Which means very little, statistically. I mean, it was over two years, before, that I was dry. And the day came, after those two years had passed, when I went out one night and bought a bottle of single malt scotch and took it home.

The past may be prelude to the future. I don’t know. Still, you gotta start somewhere. I have no idea what sweet whiskey lullaby the sirens will sing at me, down the road. I guess I’ll see, down the road. I’m OK with that. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. I never made any promises or vows to anyone. Not to any person. Not to God. I’m kind of whistling along, here. Right now, today, I’m feeling pretty good. And right now, today, I’ll keep walking.

Bunny trails are always so tempting and inviting. The point I’m trying to get to. All through that time last summer when the whiskey flowed hard and heavy, all through that time I felt totally free not to go to church. I knew there would be no committee meetings, no vote on who is going to see Ira and admonish him about not coming around to assemble and worship with true believers. I knew that no growling deacon was coming to poke around and smoke me out. I was free to go to church, when I went. And I was free not to go, when I didn’t. If anyone ever tells you it’s a sin to skip church, any church, anywhere, at any time for pretty much any reason, don’t listen to that person. Walk away. Don’t accept the heavy burden of false guilt that others want to load on you. You are free. Walk free.

Circling back to that Saturday morning when I saw the poll question online. It was a little ironic, what happened later that day. The comments simmered down, by afternoon. Most were good-natured. It was interesting, to see what people thought. The grim ones remained grim. It’s a sin, not to go to church if you can. I felt sorry for anyone who felt that way. And that afternoon, I was running errands here and there, when a text came pinging in. From my friend, Steve Beiler, over close to the goat path west of Leola. Stop by if you get a chance. OK, I texted back. I’ll do that.

Steve and Ada Beiler are old friends, from way back. I’ve known them for decades. They attend my church, there at Chestnut. And I have one particular memory, from back in those harsh and heavy days, right after Ellen and I split up in 2007. She had left, moved way out to Phoenix. And I hunkered down alone, at the home we had shared for seven years. I hadn’t shown up in church for a while. I wasn’t looking to hang out with much of anyone. Sometimes you feel like being alone, and all you want is to be left alone. That’s where I was.

And I remember. After a few weeks or so had passed, I got a call from Steve one day. He didn’t say a lot. Guys don’t speak a lot of words to each other in times like that. But that day, Steve called, and I answered. We chatted a bit, and he told me. He figured it was about time to connect. Would I like to meet for coffee? Um, sure, I guess, I said. I felt pretty ambivalent about it. And we agreed on a time, a few nights later.

We met at a little coffee shop in the shopping center just off 501, beside Rt. 30. Of an evening. I’m not sure if it’s still there or not. I hardly go to that area at all. I remember some of the specific things we talked about, sitting at a table, drinking coffee. It was dark when we walked back out to the parking lot. And I remember how we gripped hands just before I got into my truck to drive back to my home. Not a lot of words were spoken. But a lot of things were silently expressed. That’s where Steve and I have been together, a place like that.

I pulled in and parked my Jeep outside Steve and Ada’s house. They were sitting in the office. They have a bunch of beautiful daughters and one sturdy son. I’ve watched all the children grow from the time they were babies. I walked in and took a chair. We chatted. And after a while, Steve looked at me. “Come along with us to Dover tomorrow,” he said. I half gaped at him. Dover. The Monster Mile. They are big, big Nascar fans, Steve and Ada. I used to be, much more than I am now. Nascar isn’t all that exciting to watch, anymore. I mean, it’s three races in one. Stage one, stage two, stage three. It all seems a little watered down. Anyway, here I was invited to skip church the next day and go watch the race.

I thought about it. I haven’t been to a Nascar race since camping with friends inside the oval at the Poconos, back in 2010. That’s been a few years. It’s about time to go again, I thought. Especially when I can go with such good friends and hang out for a day. The old me would have flinched a little, hedged back. Made introverted excuses. Not the new me. Sure, I said. I’ll go. And they both smiled. Noises were made, then. Could I drive my Jeep? Gaaah, I thought. Those crowds are going to be crazy, getting in and out. But still. What’s a new black Jeep for, if you can’t take it to Dover to watch the race with friends on a Sunday? And I said, sure. Again. I can drive. I guess I was on a roll, there.

And they told me, before I left. Pack a few things. Snack bars and such. You can take a backpack in, and a water jug. No glass bottles, though. Well, there went the whiskey I figured to sneak in. Just kidding. I headed home and just putzed around that night. By nine, I had retired. I figured to get up earlier than usual, for a Sunday. I planned to pick up my friends by 7:30 for the two-hour trip south to Dover.

Sunday morning. Early. My alarm clamored. I got up and rubbed my eyes. Good grief. I usually sleep in until 8:00 or so, on a Sunday. This was more like getting up to go to work on a weekday. I got showered and cleaned up. Dug out an old camo rain jacket. That’s what I’d wear, if it got chilly. Outside, the day broke. Cloudy. I noticed the grass was wet, as was the drive. Just before seven, I sat down to put on a pair of tough leather hikers. Comfortable, since we’d park a half hour walk from the track. That’s what Steve figured. They had been to Dover before. I’ve never seen the Monster Mile, except on TV.

And right then, I heard my phone buzz. What now? I walked into the other room and picked it up. Glanced at the screen for the name. Steve. What now? I answered. Hello. Steve greeted me. And he told me. He had not purchased the tickets, yet. Those were easily available, he had told me. But he was just looking at the weather. It was raining outside, here at home. And according to the forecast he was checking online, there would be rain down at Dover, too. There was a better than even chance the race would get rained out.

Well. What do you say in a moment like that? It was going to be a long day, down there at the track. I knew that. Still. I was mentally ready to go. And still, again. The last thing I wanted was to sit huddled in the rain at any Nascar race. That just wouldn’t be any fun. So I told Steve. I’m fine, with whatever. Yesterday, I had no plans to go to the race before I stopped by your place. I can just as easily plan not to go. I’m fine, going to church. We got a fellowship meal today, anyway. (Not that I’d partake in the church meal. But I figured to sneak home a big plate of food for my one meal, that evening.) And Steve made the decision, right there. The trip to the Monster Mile was canceled. We’d go hear the preaching at our church, instead.

And there it was. Whiplash, one might suppose. Except it wasn’t. It all came and went very calmly, as things usually do when you don’t try to manipulate events. When you’re free enough to just let life flow. It was totally OK to go to the race instead of church. And it was totally OK to go to church instead of the race. It was OK, either way, whatever happened. We took all that liberty and simply walked through the door that opened. It did not matter to me, which door that was. And I couldn’t help thinking later that morning, as me and Amish Black drove through the rain to Chestnut Church.

It’s kind of fun, to be free like that.

You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood,
…back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for,…
back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed
everlasting but which are changing all the time–back home to the
escapes of Time and Memory.

—Thomas Wolfe
_________________

It was around a year ago, I think, when the suggestion first was made. Maybe even a little before that. It came from my cousin, Kathy Yoder Barbush. She’s from Mom’s side of the family. Those people my father cut off from us, because he didn’t want us to be tainted by the contact. The Yoder blood, that half of us we were taught to ignore and renounce. And when you hear a voice coming from that part of your past, well, I’ve learned. You stop and you listen.

Kathy messaged me, back whenever it was. She asked, because she worked there, at Vincennes University. Has been there pretty much since I was a student, way back. The University was having an Open House in the spring of 2018. Would I consider coming and speaking at the Humanities Department? I mean, being I was an author and all, with a bestseller under my belt. She thought VU would be happy to host me. She was pretty sure, in fact.

Well, what do you say to such a thing? Would I consider going and speaking at the first University I ever walked into as a student? It was a lifetime ago, when that happened. It’s always an honor, to be asked to return. Of course I would, I told her. I would be more than honored. Just give me some lead time, if and when it happens. And we left it at that. I kind of forgot about it, to be honest. Things like that mostly never develop anyway, I thought to myself.

But this “thing like that” did develop and firm right up, right along, since early this year. And that’s why I walked into Enterprise in New Holland a few Saturdays back, to pick up a rental. I had negotiated with Kathy. Well, I had told her what I wanted, and she had negotiated with the Humanities Department there at VU, apparently. Travel expenses, including a rental car and a room at the University Guest House. And a few bucks, for a “speaker’s fee.” We got it together, the Agreement. And I stopped to pick up my car on the day before Easter. I planned to spend that Holy Day this year on the road to the Midwest.

I’m irritated at Enterprise, I’ll say right up front. Beyond irritated, actually. They made me mad recently with their pious PC proclamations. Stop telling me what to think. Just shut up about politics and rent me a car when I need one. I don’t know why more big companies don’t have the sense to do a simple thing like that. Stay out of politics. I vowed that I would not rent from Enterprise again unless there was no better option. So when the time came, I checked around a bit. The local Enterprise is just a few blocks away. So very convenient. I can leave my Jeep right on their lot while I’m gone. And I rationalized to myself. Vincennes University is paying for the car, anyway. So it’s no money out of my pocket. The convenience outweighed my irritation, this time. So I went ahead, this time. I guess we’ll see what next time brings.

So there I was that morning, at Enterprise to pick up my car. I asked the nice young man if there was a Charger on the lot. As usual. And as usual, at least lately, he shook his head. No. They had a Toyota Camry ready for me. A 2018 model, almost new. He figured I’d like it. And then the young Enterprise man asked me what the rental car people always ask when you’re picking up your wheels. Do I want any insurance for the car, for this trip? It was only $25.00 per day, for a total of $100.00. They always slide it in so smoothly, and they always make it sound so easy. Just cough up the extra money. It’s really not that painful, for the peace of mind you’ll feel. That’s what they’re saying, when they’re upselling you.

And I shook my head, like I always do. Nah. My Allstate coverage kicks in. But then I thought, all of a sudden. What if I had an accident? Yeah, Allstate would kick in, after my deductible. And I just had that claim, back before Christmas, when Big Blue spun like a top on the ice. My first insurance claim, ever. And now I stood there, thinking. I had never, never before taken the extra insurance with any rental car. But VU was paying for my car. That included insurance. So I changed my mind, right there. Yeah, I said. I’m getting reimbursed for my rental expenses, by the University where I’m going to speak. Yes. Let’s put on the extra insurance. The young man smiled. A sale. An extra. He had done it. He showed me where to initial that I was purchasing the insurance. I took my paperwork, parked Amish Black at the back of the lot, and got into my new Toyota Camry. It took a minute to figure out all the glitzy controls. The car all but drove itself, from the looks of it.

And by 6:30 the next morning, I was on the road. All my bags were packed and loaded. I had packed a little heavy. It was the first time in a while that I was going out to speak at a place like this. The first time since I quit drinking back in August. The first time since I started to groom up a bit and take a little pride in how I look. And at home, I played it out in my head. This shirt with that tie and these pants. And there was this other possibility, too. Round and round I went, with my thinking. And I ended up just filling my garment bag with a number of different colored shirts, and a jacket and a vest. And a couple of pairs of shoes. I’d figure it out when the day came, I figured. And I headed west on the turnpike with my bags and a box with a few dozen copies of my book. You always take a few of those along, wherever you go. That’s what I’ve learned. The Camry hummed along, almost like a Charger, I thought. It sure had the power. It’s bigger and completely redesigned, the new Camry. And it was giving the Charger a run for the money, in my head.

And I thought about things, as I pushed along the road that day. I thought about those days of long ago, when I was a student at Vincennes University. Mulled over those days, as the miles flowed along. But I thought of other things, too. I thought of Kathy, my cousin who worked at VU. And how she had gotten me in to speak. I thought of her and her family.

Mom had a number of brothers and sisters. Most of them were known to us. Most of them were Plain Mennonite, Block Church people who drove cars and farmed with tractors. But Mom also had two siblings that we never knew much about. We rarely if ever heard their names spoken. Mom’s younger sister, Sarah, and her youngest brother, Joe. Those two were so far from the world I grew up in that they might as well have been on another planet.

Sarah married a Catholic man with the last name of McGuire. And that right there was enough to make Dad make sure we never had anything to do with her, as long as he had any control over who we saw or didn’t. And Mom’s youngest brother Joe, well, his was a tragic story. The man was a hard drinker, addicted to alcohol. I know a lot more about how that is than I’d like to. He married a girl named Lydia Ann, who was from the Amish community in Berne, Indiana. I know absolutely nothing about their lives when they were Amish and young married. I don’t know when Joe started drinking, or if he always drank. Anyway, he and Lydia left the Amish with their children. Several daughters, and at least one son. And not long after they left the Amish, they separated, Joe and Lydia did. Then they divorced. The classic fodder for Amish sermons. See how it goes, when you leave? This kind of thing happens when you go out into “the world.” I know a little bit about how it is when you’re fodder for Amish sermons for reasons like that.

It’s impossible for me to tell how little I knew of Aunt Sarah or Joe and Lydia’s family, growing up. I can’t remember hearing the names of any of them, except in passing, maybe from my older siblings. Mom had a brother named Joe, who was completely English. And divorced, yet. They were pariahs, Sarah and Joe and Lydia, an embarrassment to the Wagler family name. They were Yoders, from Mom’s side. They were judged and reviled in my father’s world. And utterly scorned. It would take a long and broken road for me to travel to where this part of my family was.

The Camry swooshed along, like a rocket ship. The young Enterprise guy was right. I was impressed with the car from the first. When you had to back up, there was a camera on the dash that flashed to life with an amazingly clear live feed of what was behind you. And when you put the thing in cruise control, it wouldn’t get too close to the vehicle ahead. It slowed down on its own to the speed of the car in front, about a thousand feet back. Which was a little unhandy, because you had to get close to pass. By the end of the trip, I had figured out the car’s foibles. I would rent a Camry again. Of course, I’ll always happily drive a Charger, too. If it came to a choice between the two, well, the Charger looks just a little classier.

I didn’t figure there would be a lot of traffic on the roads on Easter Sunday. And there wasn’t. From the turnpike, I got on I-70 West. On and on, through Ohio into Indiana. It’s a long old stretch, out through there. By late afternoon, I was approaching Indianapolis. And here came a text from Kathy. She had the key to get me into my guest room. She would meet me at VU. But she was at her Mom’s house, there in Vincennes. And they had cooked up a big meal. There would be a plate for me when I got there. They wanted to feed me. OK, I texted back. I’ll let you know when I get close. And I thought about it. I was tired, from traveling all day. I didn’t know these people, Kathy’s Mom and sister. I wasn’t sure about walking into the house of a stranger to get fed. Still. They wouldn’t have invited me if they didn’t want me there. That’s what I told myself as the Camry pulsed through Indianapolis, then on west for an hour or more. Then south on State Road 41. Vencennes was coming right up.

It was a long time ago, when I first walked the streets of Vincennes as a student. Next year, it will be thirty years. There have been so many miles since that time. So many roads, some of them hard, broken roads. But still. I always feel a little sliver of anticipation and excitement slice through me when I approach that town. It was a big deal to me, when I first walked onto the campus at VU. A big deal. And time has distanced me from those days. The lights have dimmed a little. But that sliver of excitement always stirs inside when I return.

I texted Kathy. I’m getting close. She texted back. I’ll be waiting outside on the porch. And minutes later, I pulled up to the little house where her mother lives, just off Hart Street. The skies had darkened. A few random drops of rain were spitting down. I parked on the edge of the yard and got out. Kathy walked out. We greeted each other and hugged. I followed her into the house. And there I was greeted by total strangers. Kathy’s husband, Andrew Barbush. Her mother, Lydia. Her older sister, Laura. And her (Kathy’s) teenage son, Avann. They sat there in the dining room. I shook hands with all of them. They seemed excited and eager to see me. I took a seat at the table, and we talked.

I had not eaten all day. I’m still eating only my One Meal a Day (OMAD). And I wasn’t sure how it would go. I had not traveled much at all since starting OMAD last November. And it worked out great, I gotta say. All that day, I had sipped on water and black coffee. At precisely 5:00 PM, I swallowed my daily Superfood vitamin pill. That’s always the first thing I take, to “break my fast.” And now these people, these strangers, my cousins from my mother’s side, now they sat with me around that table. They had eaten earlier. But they asked. Would I like a plate of food? They had ham, and all the fixings. You bet I’d love that, I said. Laura dashed off to the kitchen. The rest of us sat there, just talking and catching up. Well, maybe getting acquainted is a better term. We sat there, getting acquainted. These people are sure easy to talk to, I thought to myself.

And soon Laura brought the food from the kitchen, a large plate loaded with sliced ham, potatoes, corn, greens. I was hungry, from not having eaten all day. I grabbed a fork and shoveled in bites as we talked. And I asked about their history, these people from my mother’s family. Joe Yoder’s ex-wife and children and a grandson. We talked like old friends who had known each other for a long time. It turned out I had met Joe once, at a cookout, probably back in 1986. Right after I had fled Bloomfield after breaking up with Sarah. I remember that evening faintly. I remember Joe, too, but I can’t recall his face. I remember hearing when he died, decades ago, at age fifty-eight. He “drank himself to death,” is what they said. I remember thinking. He’s a stranger to me. But he was my uncle. Here, in this room, here was his family. They were English, as I was. They had seen hard roads, as I had. Completely separated from each other, we had somehow found each other on this day. It’s funny, how that works sometimes.

I settled in and devoured my food. It was delicious. We talked hard and fast as I ate. I asked Lydia if she had a copy of my book. She had seen it, but she didn’t have one. So I walked out to the Camry and fetched a copy. I signed it to her. She smiled and smiled and thanked me. Kathy then rode with me over to VU to show me around and to get me settled in the guest house. We cruised around campus first. The place has expanded vastly, at least in buildings, since my time there. The old Humanities Building looked the same, though. And the parking lot where I used to park, it was about the same, too. We drove down to the river, where VU had cleaned up the banks and created a small park. Heavy rains had raised the river, and it was spitting rain that night, too.

And then I drove over to the VU Guest House, where the University offers rooms to VIP guests. Like me, I thought, and chuckled. Kathy was eager to check out the house, as she had not seen the inside of it. It’s a beautiful place, very tastefully furnished with a full kitchen, dining room, living room, and about four or five independent guest rooms upstairs. I was given the key to the Red Skelton room. I guess he was a native of Vincennes, so that’s why my room was furnished with many photos of a clown. Kathy helped me carry in my bags, and then I took her back to her mother’s house. And before too late that night, I settled into my comfortable bed in the Red Skelton room.

Monday. Moving along, here. The day came at me. There was an old friend I wanted to look up in town. I called him, and he gave me his address. We had connected on Facebook before I came, so he knew I was around. I left my cozy guest house and headed out to find a cup of black coffee, and gas up. Might as well get that done. Parts of Vincennes are a little run down, I thought as I pulled into a raggedy station. I forget the brand, some sort of Midwestern logo. I filled my tank and punched the button for my receipt. The decrepit little printer made squeaking noises, but failed to spit out any paper. Ah, come on, I groaned. You piece of junk. I was pretty irritated.

But I needed coffee anyway. So I walked in and poured a cup, strong and black. The attendant, a large busty blond woman, greeted me with a raspy smile. One cup of coffee, I said. And I need a receipt for Pump 4. She nodded, and printed the receipt and handed it to me. Thanks, I said. I owe you for the coffee. She smiled at me again, a big bright smile. “Ah, honey,” she said. She was a smoker or had been at one time. “Tell you what. Since you had to come in for your receipt, the coffee’s on us.” My irritation flashed out the window, whoosh, just like that. I smiled back at her. Thank you, I said. I appreciate that. And I did. It was a classy and cool thing to do. I thought happy thoughts as I drove away. It’s amazing how a simple little act like that can affect your frame of mind.

Twenty-nine years ago, I was an excited and eager student at Vincennes University. Before getting there, I had asked the University people. I need a room to board in, during the week. I’ll go back to my home in Daviess for the weekends. I don’t need an apartment or anything fancy. Just a room. And they had very kindly connected me with a guy who lived across town. He had a third floor attic room for rent, for a little bit of next to nothing. One fifty a month, or some such thing. I went and looked and rented the little attic room on the spot. And over the two-year window when attending VU, I boarded in my little room. I got to be good friends with the landlord. His name was Lyndon Phillippe. He was divorced and lived alone in the house with his adult son. There was room for one or two more. I had not seen the man since graduating from VU in 1991. And this morning, the morning of my free coffee, I was going to his home to visit.

We had connected on Facebook, back a number of years ago, Lyndon and me. He knew about my book. We had communicated a few times via instant message. He had wanted to come hear me speak this time, but he let me know up front that he probably wouldn’t be able to make it. Well, I said. If you can’t make it to hear me, I’ll come to you. And that morning, I went. I parked along the street outside the house he now lives in, about a block away from the one where I had rented that attic room. I walked up and knocked. The door opened. I would have recognized him, I think. He’s not that tall, and a little heavy set. His face looked about the same, just older. He greeted me and spoke my name and smiled. I smiled back and spoke his. We gripped hands, as we had not done since I told him good-bye in 1991.

He’s retired now, and he walks with a cane. I followed him inside. His house was cluttered, like it had always been. Stuff stacked about. Just like my house. I was instantly comfortable and at home. (At least those two shedding cats were gone. I asked about them, and he told me the details of the demise of each. I murmured sympathetically.) He sat in his favorite old worn armchair and I sat on the couch. And we caught up from almost thirty years, me and my old friend. He told me about his family, his son and daughter and their families. He showed me pictures of the grandkids on his computer. And we talked about knives and guns and pickup trucks and smoking pipes and such, the stuff men talk of when they hang out.

I stayed a while, over an hour. As we wound down, Lyndon handed me three treasures as gifts. Two Erik Nording freehand briar pipes, and a handmade hunting knife he had picked up decades ago at a swap meet. The pipes were works of art, the knife beautifully crafted. I tried to protest, a little weakly, but he waved me off. He wanted me to have these things. I thanked him and took the gifts. I will always treasure them, I told him. I signed his copy of my book, then. And I told him I’d send him a copy of my new book when it came out. He saw me to the door, and we shook hands again. And then I left.

So far, so good, here in Vincennes. Tuesday would be the big day. I had two speeches to make at the auditorium. But this was Monday. And Kathy had asked me. She worked at the Writing Center, there in the Humanities Building. A place where students came, to work on their writing. And she wondered. Would I consider coming by on Monday sometime, and give a talk about writing? Of course, I said. I’d like that. I strolled into the Center early, around 2:30. Kathy was sitting at her station. A few students sat about. I met Tyson, Kathy’s coworker, who was the tech guy. He would introduce me at my main speeches on Tuesday. But for now, we were here, a dozen people or so. Including a couple of VU professors. English teachers. Right at three, Kathy stood behind the little podium on the table, and introduced me. There was polite clapping as I stood to take the floor.

Writing. How does one speak of what it is to write? I told the students a little bit of how it went, back in 2007, when I started writing seriously. How I started posting on my blog after my marriage blew up. How I had never pushed myself out there, how the book came on its own, from me sitting at my corner desk and writing. And I told them. You write how you talk. At least I do. That’s why you see fragments in my book. Incomplete sentences that an English teacher would mark all up in red. Still. You speak from your heart. Don’t pay all that much attention to the rules. Just like you don’t when you talk. That’s what works for me, what has worked for me. I took questions, then, and expounded on what I think writing is. I wasn’t sure there was enough interest to keep me going for an hour. But the time whooshed right by, and four o’clock came. Time to wind down. If anyone has a book, I’ll gladly sign it. And they brought their copies. One down, I thought to myself. Two to go. Tomorrow. Two speeches.

We went out to eat, then. Kathy and her husband Andrew, and a few friends. At a nice little pub on the other side of town. I parked and walked up to the front door, and there was an old familiar face. One of my old professors at VU, Dr. Bernard Verkamp. The man spent his career teaching philosophy at Vincennes. I took a class he taught in all four of my semesters at VU. We had become good friends before I graduated. I knew he had retired, and was spending his time researching and writing. He looked about the same, just a bit older. As we all are, I suppose. I walked up and greeted him, smiling. We shook hands. It was a pleasant surprise to see my old friend. He’s still looking spry. “Call me Bernard,” he insisted. I laughed. It just don’t seem right, I said. To me, you are and will always be Dr. Verkamp. My professor and friend.

We were seated around a large table. Kathy told me to order what I wanted. VU was paying for my meal. So I ordered an appetizer, a steak and a couple of side dishes. No wine or whiskey, though. Just water to drink, with lemon. Dr. Verkamp sat across the table from me, and we instantly launched into a discussion of lots of things. The man weaves his philosophical thinking into every conversation. He asked how I have been doing, and what I’m thinking these days. Umm, I said. I am an anarchist in the classical meaning of the word. Not a black-clad thug, breaking windows and rioting. That’s what the media wants you to think anarchists are. In truth, we are the most peaceful of all peoples. We simply don’t believe in having anyone rule over us. No ruler. No king. (We do not dispute about the qualifications of a master; we will have no master. Cato’s Letters, No. 23) We stand by the non-aggression principle, or NAP. All aggressive force is always wrong, no matter where it comes from, the individual or the state. All defensive force is always justified, no matter who or what it’s against. I will leave you alone, always, to live in peace. But if you come at me to hurt me or mine, I will hit back at you so hard your head will spin. And you might die.

And I told him. It’s bred into who I am, from my Amish heritage. You never, never, never trust the state. Never. My people were hunted down like animals and killed by the state, the government. It is a vile, false idol. I will never bow my knee to it. I tend to get a little worked up, talking about it. The state is a monster. Dr. Verkamp nodded and looked interested. He wasn’t all that dubious, even. He asked what my religion is these days. I’m in the Reformed camp, I told him. A Calvinist, right across the board. It’s the freest thing I’ve found. He didn’t seem shocked by that, either. I don’t think the man would have been shocked at anything I might have said. He was always calm, that way. Like a good philosopher should be.

The food came, then, and we all feasted. I was hungry for my one meal. The steak was excellently done. And I even took dessert, a large slice of moist carrot cake and coffee. As we parted, Dr. Verkamp mentioned that he planned to come hear my talk the next day. Oh, boy, I thought. Now I’ll be judged by my old teacher. It was good, though. I was honored that he would take the time.

And it was back to my room at the Guest House, then. The Red Skelton room. A cold rain drizzled down. The weather had been unsettled all the way across the country. And I settled in to sleep again. Tomorrow was Tuesday. The big day, the day I had come for. And soon enough, it dawned. A clear morning. The sun shone nice and warm. I looked at my shirts and ties and pants. And settled for a nice white shirt, red power tie, and black dress pants. A patterned brownish jacket and black shoes. Pretty spiffy, I thought. I then stopped at McDonald’s for a good cup of black coffee. And by ten or so, I was in the Humanities Building on the VU campus. The Shircliff Building. That’s the name of the place where I took most of my classes as a student. I strolled into the auditorium, carrying my box of books. My friend Tyson was bustling about onstage, getting ready. There was a large wired podium off in the corner, but it looked like it was anchored to the floor. I asked Tyson. Where’s my podium? He shrugged. He didn’t know for sure. Eventually, we figured it out. We brought up a white folding table and set a small wooden podium on top of it. It was the right height, and comfortable to stand behind. Tyson allowed he could scare up a nice blue cloth to cover the table. And off he went to find it.

Kathy bustled in and out of the room, too. She had located a couple of mannequins and dressed one as an Amish woman, complete with bonnet, the other as an Amish man, complete with barn door pants and galluses. And a straw hat. The “man” wore a straw hat. I was impressed. Good backdrop, right there, I thought. The minutes ticked by as the time for my talk crept closer and closer. And soon, people began drifting in and seating themselves. The auditorium would be far from full. But there would be at least a few dozen students and other listeners. Kathy had found a short clip online that had been filmed about me back in 2012. The 700 Club people had stopped by for over a day. They had planned to run a short documentary on me and my book. Well. They got started with the film, but they quit about six minutes in. What is done is very beautiful and professional. But the clip just stops, cold. And Kathy had texted me the night before. Would it be OK if they ran that short clip as an introduction, before I spoke? Of course, I said. That would be great. I knew the clip was good stuff, but I also figured I would have to be onstage for at least six fewer minutes if they ran it. So it was a good deal all around, I thought.

Dr. Verkamp strolled in and took a seat toward the back, on the right side of the room, facing the stage. I waved at him. Other people, too, filed in and got seated. And promptly at eleven, Tyson walked onto the stage. After a brief but very complimentary introduction, he started the short six minute film. And there was my face, much larger than life, on the large wall screen behind the stage. After the film, Tyson walked on and said, “And now, here is Ira Wagler.” The people clapped as I walked to join Tyson. We shook hands, and I walked up behind the podium on the table, now covered with a nice blue cloth. I had laid out all my stuff, my notes, my glasses, and a book. And I had stacked a pile of books on each side of the table, facing out. It looked good. I held the mic and looked out over the room. Amazingly, I didn’t feel all that nervous. I began to speak.

Thank you all for being here. It is a huge honor for me to be invited to speak by Vincennes University. And right then, the mic went blank. Just shut off. Tyson walked back up and we fiddled with it a bit. It worked again, until I had spoken about two words. Then it blanked out again. I looked out over the room. It wasn’t that big, really. I come from the Amish, where the preachers have to shout across vast rooms filled with people, to speak their sermons. So I set the mic back on its stand. And I stood there behind my podium, behind my table, and just spoke to the people with the voice I had.

I have a fairly basic spiel, when I get up to speak in public about my book. I give a very condensed version of the story in my book, especially the parts about Rumspringa and leaving home. The talks are usually just a little different in details here and there, because there are so many bunny trails one can meander down. One day, it’s this trail. The next day, that one over there. And there are always new trails to find, too. I have a very rough outline to guide and nudge me along. Otherwise, it’s free talk, almost. And that’s what I did that day in that first speech at Vincennes. I looked back and remembered a good deal about my experience at the school, and wove that in, too. I’ve talked before dozens and dozens of groups. And it always goes better when I’m relaxed. Well, I was relaxed that day.

I went a bit overlong, though, because I thought the speech was supposed to last 90 minutes, all told. So I was geared for that. Tyson managed to politely signal and shut me down at just a little over an hour. Fifty minutes was more what they’re looking for. It was all good, though. I was very willing to shut down. And I signed a few books that people brought by, and sold a few of my own, too, there right after. I mingled for as long as anyone wanted to. Then I headed back to my room to rest a little. The skies were dark and dangerous when I parked and walked into my room. And soon, I heard the hard thumping on the roof of the house. What in the world? I pulled back a curtain and looked out the window. Great white clumps of ice were raining down, hard. They bounced off the pavement and they bounced off cars. Including my Camry, sitting out there all unprotected.

A quick little bunny trail, here, about another gas station. I had seen the sign, when I came in along sixth street earlier that day. At Huck’s. A big banner out front. Livers and Gizzards: $3.98. It made my mouth water, just the thought. And that afternoon I broke my fast a half hour early. At 4:30. I had to speak at six. So I thought, eat a little early and get that food settled in before. I drove out to Huck’s and sauntered in, all dressed up for my speech. A black vest with black pants and a white Steampunk shirt with blue dots and a dark blue tie with stripes. Which is better than a striped shirt with a striped tie going opposite. Well, according to some people, it is. Not me, necessarily. I get a lot of flack from certain friends about wearing stripes with stripes. Striped shirt, solid tie. That’s what they keep hollering at me. I just smile at them. I like opposite stripes. Just not that day. I can wear about whatever and get away with it. People expect a writer to be a little weird, dress a little different. So that perception helps.

And that was a bunny trail in a bunny trail, right there. I sauntered into Huck’s, all dressed up, and asked for an order of Livers and Gizzards. The young attendant didn’t think that strange at all. He piled my little container high, as far up as he could stack. I paid the guy, took my precious cargo and walked over and sat at the side bar to eat. Sprinkle a little mustard on those fried chicken innards, and eat them with a plastic fork. That’s what I did. That little meal right there I wouldn’t trade for the finest steak and caviar, if those two things are even served on the same table. You can’t find fried food like this in Lancaster County. They’re too stuck up and blue-blooded. I enjoyed every bite of my feast, right down to the last crumb.

And soon enough, I was back at the campus, getting ready for my second speech that day. I now know a little bit how a preacher feels, if he has to preach at two services on the same day. I mean, I was talking about the same things both times. Just a little different trail, maybe. Kathy had told me, early on. My Aunt Sarah was planning on coming to hear me speak. She wasn’t sure which one. We had to see what the weather brought. The weather was bad through much of Tuesday. But by evening, it had cleared. And they arrived together, the people from Mom’s family. Aunt Sarah. And Joe’s ex-wife, Lydia and her daughter, Laura, and a couple of grandchildren.

“We need to take a picture with all of us in it,” Kathy said. I agreed. Yes. We definitely need to get that done. I met them as they walked up to us. Aunt Sarah hugged me. She’s 93 years old, the only one left in Mom’s immediate family. She’s been a widow now for many years. I hugged Lydia, too, and Laura. I greeted all of them. Kathy and Aunt Sarah, I had seen and spoken to both of them many times before. All the others in the group were complete strangers to me when I arrived in Vincennes. We lined up and seated ourselves on a couple of rows of seats and smiled for the camera.

My Mother’s blood. Front, from L: Laura Yoder, Sarah McGuire, Lydia Yoder.
Rear, from L: Ira, Kathy Yoder Barbush, Leah Bullock, Avann Mickens.

And then people trickled in. Some of them I knew, and some of them I got to know later. The crowd was small, probably the same size that had attended earlier that day. I looked out and recognized some of the Wagler family from Daviess, the people who had taken me in back in those frantic days when I was running hard. Dean and his wife, Wanda. And Rhoda and her husband, Marlin. I smiled in wonder. Old friends, from way back. They came. I connected with them later. They had seen the little blurb in the newspaper that afternoon. And they had dropped everything and come to see me.

Tyson did his little introduction and played the short film again. And then he called my name. I walked onstage for the second time in a few short hours. We shook hands, and he gave me the mic. Supposedly it had been fixed. Sadly, it had not. It didn’t even pretend to work at all. So I set it aside again. And I just talked to the people again. This time, I was highly conscious of the clock. After about forty minutes or so, I opened for questions. There are usually plenty of those. As there were that night, too. A few minutes in, someone in the back asked about the relationship my parents had. About how Dad had kept Mom from her family. There is a brief mention of that fact, early in the book.

I forget the exact wording of the question. And my response was not planned at all. But it hit me right then and there. They were here. Mom’s blood. Mom’s family. The two siblings whose names were never mentioned. They were here, or their blood was. And I stopped for a little bit and thought of how to say the words. I gathered them in order, in my head. Just speak your heart. That’s all you have to do. It’s all you can do, at this point. And I stammered a bit and fumbled with the words. But they came.

Yes, I said. It’s mentioned early in the book, how Dad took Mom and moved her away from her family. It’s true, that he cut her off from them. And tonight, they are here, some of that family. Mom’s people. They are sitting right out here in front. Those two short rows. I pointed. I went on. These people are my family. They are my blood. It was not right, what my father did to keep us apart. It was wrong. And tonight, I claim them as family. Our relationship will never be what it would have been, and it will never be what it should have been, had we not been kept apart. But it can still be strong and beautiful. Family is family, and blood is blood.

And I didn’t really think that much about it, right there when it happened. It only hit me later, kind of sideways, upside the head. How symbolic and significant that moment was. It will affect the narrative in the book I’m working on right now, I’m thinking. And, yeah. My voice shook a little. And yes, I fumbled for the words. But they were spoken, and they were spoken in public. I rejected the actions my father took so many years ago. He did what he thought was right. But he was flawed, as we all are. It wasn’t right, to cut Mom’s people off like that. It was wrong. My family will always be my family. I don’t care how many broken roads any of them walked, getting to where they are. Family is family, and blood is blood. It will always be. I mourn for those who are trapped in the grip of harsh and zealous judgment, those who have never opened their hearts to this simple and powerful truth.

After a few more questions, I wrapped up the talk. Read a favorite quote from Thomas Wolfe. And I thanked the people who had come. Everyone clapped. And then Kathy walked onstage. She handed me a little bowl of tickets. Everyone had been given a ticket with a number, coming in. Now we would draw to give away four signed copies of my book. I shook the basket, mixed up the token tickets. Pulled one and read the number. A winner. Then another. And another winner. I read the third number. Aunt Sarah gasped, loud enough for the room to hear. “Well, that’s mine!” Aunt Sarah won a book, I said, cheering. Let’s all give her a hand. And we did. Later, I signed all the copies brought to me, and I also posed with Aunt Sarah. I would have gladly given her a book anyway, but I was happy for her, that she won one. And I was so, so honored that she came.

Aunt Sarah, holding the book she won.

Wednesday morning dawned. I was up early. By six, I had loaded my bags and hit the road. I texted Kathy on the way out. Thank you so much for everything. I had a super great time. I left the keys on the kitchen island, and the door to the house is unlocked. She texted back. Thanks for being here. I pushed hard that day, on the road. At precisely five that afternoon, I pulled into my drive in New Holland. Eleven hours. That’s how long it takes to drive from Vincennes to my home.

The next morning, I returned the Camry on my way to work. I was sipping my black coffee and thinking pleasant thoughts. The car had been real nice to drive. I won’t ever grumble if they give me a Camry instead of a Charger. I parked and walked in. Another customer was checking out a vehicle. So I waited for my turn.

The young Enterprise guy took my keys and went out to inspect the Camry for potential damage. He wasn’t gone long. He walked back in, looking a little excited. And he asked. “Did you drive through any hail?” I thought for a moment, then nodded. As a matter of fact, there was a hail storm, yes, I said. On Tuesday afternoon. Why? And he took me out and showed me. If you held your head just right and looked, you could see. My car had about thirty pronounced little dents on the hood, the roof, and the trunk. That all right there was going to take some fixing. But there was nothing to worry about, the nice young man assured me. My special insurance would take care of it. There wasn’t even any paperwork to fill out. No claims to sign. I just took my receipt and walked out and boarded Amish Black and drove off.

And right that moment, I was pretty astounded. I still am. Either the Lord is looking out for me, or I’m just walking free. I think that’s it. I’m walking free. The thing is, I work for Him. He doesn’t work for me. Whatever comes along is just fine. I’m not looking for any special little things to happen, but I’m thankful to the Giver of all gifts when they do. And this little trip to Vincennes was a gift, all right. From the moment I walked out the door of my house until the moment I walked back in. And right up through the moment I returned my rental car. It was all a gift, freely given. And a gift freely received, with a grateful heart.

And I gotta say. It’s a beautiful thing, to walk free like that. Even on broken roads.