We’d been awake since 2 AM, our bodies carry the exhaustion more heavily now than they did nine years ago when we were younger, stronger, able to function better on little sleep. I squirmed against Jordan’s bony shoulder, opened one eye to the soft dawn light sneaking through the half open window shade and sat straight up. Beyond the window, rising through thick, golden, peachy clouds was the single mouth of a snow-covered volcano. Unlike our Rocky Mountains with peaks connecting from one to the next one, Mount Rainier stands alone, isolated, a towering beacon of awe and beauty and magnitude. The late summer snow reflected the light of the glowing sun rising slowly behind us. Then we dropped, descending below the clouds, lower and lower through a foggy haze, and finally landing on a still dim tarmac, unlit by a sun that had risen hundreds of feet above us but remained shrouded at our low altitude. It was moody and cool and so very early—the perfect introduction to Seattle.
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We planned a last minute, rather unexpected trip to the Pacific Northwest after a long summer of canceled plans and accumulating unknowns with a looming move to a TBD location. My husband’s job was becoming as unpredictable as a Colorado autumn. And to be honest, I was still nursing a wounded spirit after missing my only sister’s wedding due to COVID-19. In those early weeks of August, we finally received the moving news we’d been waiting for, news that was welcome but also disrupted a very long, anticipated, two-years-in-the-making trip to Italy. I canceled the flights, the hotels, scrapped my itinerary for the second time, and booked two last minute flights to Seattle instead.
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With fresh chocolate croissants in hand, washed down by our first cups of Seattle coffee, we drove our rental car to the ferry to cross Puget Sound for Bainbridge Island and, eventually, the Olympic Peninsula. Cool wind and salty air hit my face, thickened my hair. We stood on the top of the ferry like a couple of tourists, delighting in the iconic cloudy day, the Seattle skyline, the lapping waves dotted by seaweed and styrofoam cups. We ducked inside when the wind grew too intense and sat by large picture windows, surrounded by old men doing crossword puzzles and young families pushing strollers and excited 20-somethings drinking lattes. It was a day for soaking in beauty—the beauty of the sea, the beauty of moss-covered trees, the beauty of fried fish paired with an ice cold pilsner, the beauty of winding roads through mountain passes, the beauty of lush ferns growing from needle-covered soil.
It was a weekend saturated in beauty from the rainforest, to the sea, to the city…That evening we made our way back across the sound, our eyelids slowly drooping from a long day of traveling, ferrying, driving, being astounded. But we were in for the best burst of beauty when we arrived at my friend Sara’s house, welcomed by her hospitable family and curious pup. We’d never met in the flesh until that very day. But even friendships, I’ve found, can grow in the backchannels of direct messages. We drank more beer and ate tacos at a North Seattle brewery, wrapped up in jackets like it was October instead of August.
I once sought connection from safe spheres where like-mindedness thrived. But with frequent moves, I’ve had to creatively seek friendships beyond church walls, especially during a crushing pandemic. I’ve discovered goodness in the invitation to delve into the deep and hard and complex with others who are, as Joan D. Chittister writes in The Rule of Benedict, “holy listeners.” Holy listening requires honesty, the sort of honesty that extends safety like a blanket. In the differences of thoughts and opinions and beliefs there is still an underlying unification found within our humanity. Some are further along, healthy, and happy. Others are grappling. Some are close to giving up. We come together to love and listen and offer the hospitality of here-ness—not necessarily like-ness. This is the embodiment of “Christ in our marrow” (as the Jars of Clay song goes), a freedom to “come as you are” and find connection in the good, the hard, and the holy.
I recently wrote about a healing conversation over shared pupusas last summer. And a month ago, we drove out to the Grand Tetons and camped with friends we first met because of an Instagram invitation to dinner. We awoke Saturday morning in Seattle to another deliciously chilly morning and ventured out for breakfast at a local bakery with Sara and her family. We sat by a patio fire next to a salmon smoker and talked about God and connection and church and rootedness. The physical beauty of Washington State is captivating, but even more so was the hospitality of these friends who welcomed us in gentleness and kindness and the kind of conversation that stays with you and sinks deep into your bones.
I have wondered if I’ll ever be able to venture beyond the new-friend stage in any new relationship if each one has a three year expiration date. It’s discouraging at times to sense people holding back, to feel a bit on the outs when our days in one particular location are numbered. But this is the era of easy travel and Voxers and social media DMs. We can connect beyond the physical.
Annie Dillard writes in Holy the Firm, “All day long I feel created.” And I feel this sentiment so deeply when I am seen and known in the smallest of ways, when we sit on a patio doused in laugher and talk about the highs and lows of the writing life, when we drink black coffee in a dew-soaked orchard and discuss the haunting pain of a collapsing faith, when we bless the hands in front of us, the bodies before us, when we acknowledge the road is hard but along the way are fellow pilgrimers and wanderers and serial questioners. “All day long I feel created” in my frailty, my vulnerability, my longing for home.
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Our last night in Washington, we sat on piles of driftwood as the sun slowly sank over the lapping waves. A seal popped up his head before dashing back into the murky depths. A few hours earlier, we stood on a bridge hundreds of feet over the churning, swirling cerulean blue waters of Deception Pass. We hiked down to a rocky beach where the ancient trees grow wide and the ferns grow lush. We ate fish for dinner, found our little cabin in the woods, and drove out to a private beach to witness our last ocean sunset for a while. From my driftwood seat, peering out at the nearly-too-bright setting sun, I felt hope radiate through me, felt the goodness of Christ in my marrow, affirmed by a weekend caught up in the beauty of both adventure and pause. This weekend was the respite we needed.
If “beauty will save the world,” as Dostoevsky writes, I can’t help but think it’s the combination of all good and beautiful things, not just art or awe-striking nature scenes, but also the beauty of a flaky fish sandwich cooked to perfection, the beauty of a bright cup of slowly poured coffee, the beauty of a cloudy sky, the beauty of a ripening apple orchard, the beauty of safe conversations and burgeoning friendships, the beauty of connection found in its many different forms.
Christ in Our Marrow
This is beautiful friend. I’m so grateful you had this refreshing trip in the midst of all the disappointments. Beauty Himself will save the world--everything good thing points to him.
I am transported. Thank you!