At 6:34 am I rolled over to get out of bed. Not my bed though. A rented bed. We were on vacation.
I usually ignored my phone in the morning. The world doesnʼt deserve tolerating me before at least two cups of coffee. Tuesday was different. Maybe I was just out of my routine. Vacationed.
We picked the cabin we stayed in for many reasons. One of our favorite things about it is a total lack of cellular phone reception. AT&T hasnʼt discovered our little cabin by the creek, deep in the Ozarks. Paradise. But then I checked my phone.
Apparently iMessage can go where even Big Comm isnʼt welcomed as long as there is WiFi. Yes, our mountain escape paradise has WiFi.
Who would text me at five oʼclock in the morning? Mom. “Brian is at the hospital. They are admitting him.” My brother was fighting cancer and things had taken a turn for the worse. I spent the next two hours contacting people asking them to pray.
The kids had woken up. They were excited about the hike Jamie had planned for the first day of our illustrious hillbilly getaway. We were out on the porch picking at our pop tarts when I remembered something inside we needed for our adventure.
I went to get it—only to discover the door was locked. The glass door. The one without a keypad. All the doors with keypads were still dead bolted because we hadnʼt used them yet. *insert facepalm emoji*
What did we do? We loaded up the van with children and adventurous expectations. What could go wrong?
We travelled miles down the kind of road my dad used to take me down as a kid. The kind Burt Reynolds and Elisa Dushku would have been terrified to discover in their hillbilly horror movies. Why? We were looking for the trailhead to an obscure waterfall Jamie had found online. It was the kind of adventure where the only living things you expect hope to see are trees and squirrels.
At 10:30 am we piled out of the van and had a picnic on the ground. As we concluded our meal we readied ourselves to head into the bush. Then I heard something that changed everything. It sounded like a roar.
In rolled a thunderous biker gang like the Hillbilly Sons of Hell.
Just kidding.
The roar was more of a whisper. And the news being whispered was our impending flat tire. Yikes. The air was steadily leaking out. I suddenly regretted taking my really nice floor jack out of the van to make more room for Ethanʼs Pokémon Cards.
Did we even have a jack? Did we have a spare tire? Holy Goodyear, Batman. We did.
We jacked up the car. We replaced the faulty rubber with our pristine donut. Sure we had to convince Matty he couldnʼt take a bite out of it, but we got it on. It looked better suited for a lawnmower than a Dodge Caravan, but what did I know about tires? Covering our tiny wheel in prayer and absurd expectations we drove back at half the speed of smell.
Several careful miles, and what felt like hours, later we were at a tire shop. While awaiting our turn, Uncle Brian called from the hospital. Had our tire not deflated weʼd have missed the call. Jon prayed for him over the phone. It was one of the most tinder serene moments Iʼve ever experienced.
The people at the shop were colorful and friendly. The Salt of the Earth kind of people I am more comfortable around than almost anyone else in this world. The proprietor reminded me so much of my late father-in-law I was instantly at ease. Except for the dog.
There was a beautifully obese brown lab lying six inches from where they had jacked up our van. I was pretty sure it was dead. I wanted to check for a pulse but didnʼt know where to find one on such a fat dog. I looked to see if it was breathing. Nothing. Stuff was leaking out of its head. Nevermind. It was just an abundance of drool mixing with abandoned motor oil. Then the metallic squeal of a torqued lug nut seemed to resurrect the dead dog with a twitch.
Jamie and I rested in the shade of an old oak tree surrounded by older tires and our four playing children. Thunder boomed. For real this time. But the promised storm played out like presidential campaign promises and fizzled fast.
Soon the mechanic walked over to announce our car was finished, “I donʼt know where yʼall went, but I wouldnʼt go back ifʼn I were you.”
“Wouldnʼt go back...” I started, which he took as a question.
“Yeah, man. Ya had eight staples in one tire and a nailʼn tha other one. But we patched ‘em both up for ya. Thatʼll be ten bucks.”
As in ten dollars? I couldnʼt believe it. I handed him a twenty and we drove away. That feeling Iʼd had since 11 am, the one promising impending nervous vomiting, finally went away.
What did we do to celebrate? Ice cream of course.
We found a local ice cream shack. Walked to a nearby park. And stuffed ourselves until frozen dairy comas felt imminent.
We drove back to our cabin. The realtor helped us get back inside. And, after hot dogs, and a giant glass of Gatorade we played in the creek until sunset. And we did it all together.
Bumps in the road arenʼt a lot of fun. Flat tires, disappointments, and certainly cancer are enough to ruin anyoneʼs day. Iʼve let a lot less ruin my share of the calendar.
Missed expectations, like missed turns, take us where we didnʼt plan to go. Sometimes going forward feels like a slow drive on a tiny misfit tire. Often it feels like nervous hurl trying to climb the back of your throat. Itʼs a sure sign something went sideways. Youʼll know youʼre there when life starts to feel upside down.
When I get upside down over something itʼs almost always because I tried tackling it solo. Solo is rarely the best adventure. Together is always a better adventure.
Whatever surprising adventure smacks your agenda embrace it with both arms. And then invite all the arms at your address to lean in and get some of the action. Life is gonna toss you a lemon more often than youʼd like. When it happens, donʼt just make lemonade. Make enough for two. Adventures are sweeter that way.
