relationships

A letter from my first week home this year

by Steve Brock on February 22, 2013

There's a reason the words travel and travail share the same root..

Dear Travel,

You and I, we’re not doing so well.

I think we’ve been spending too much time with each other.

I used to look forward to being with you. We’d go everywhere together.

Now, after the first week so far in this year that I haven’t had to be on the road, I find I rather like it. Sorry, Travel, but you kind of wear on me. No matter where I go, you’re always there. And you always want more.

I know your moods and your little idiosyncrasies. Like how there’s no perfect way to arrive at an airport. I’m always either waiting or running, or so it seems. Or how you lull me into a sense of complacency and then pull the rug out by canceling a flight or giving me wrong directions. That’s a nice one.

But oh too familiar.

We used to have fun together! But I can’t recall the last time I laughed on a trip. Let’s face it. The spark is gone. The ol’ magic just isn’t there.

I think we should be seeing other people.

No, we can still be friends. We can, maybe, still see each other. Sometime. Just not like everyday. Not now at least.

You go hang out with some other folks. How about all those college grads who think you’re the greatest thing since the wheel or Instagram? All they talk about is you. Spend time with them. Let them get to know you as I do. Introduce them to the wear and tear of constant business trips. Then we’ll see how enamored they are with your exotic ways and your “we could go anywhere!” attitude.

For me, I just need some distance. Yes, I know that’s your specialty. You’ve been singing me that tune for far too long. I’m talking emotional distance here, not miles. I just need to spend some time with this other friend, Home.

I’ll let you know how it goes. And who knows, we might even take a few short jaunts together into town or around the neighborhood. I know you want more, but that’s all I can give you now. I need my space, so don’t push me, OK?

What? You’ve heard me talk like this before? And I always come running back? Don’t get too cocky, Travel. We’ve not spent this much concentrated time together for a long while. Enough is enough.

So you go your way (you always do) and I’ll not go any way or anywhere. I’ll just hang. Spend time in one place. Get to know my own furniture and family for a change.

Maybe I’ll call you.

Or more likely, a week or two from now, you’ll call me.

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Traveling Light – Part 2

by Steve Brock on December 16, 2011

Last time we left off with my wife and I attending the annual Feast of Lights at the University of Redlands. We’d just come back from intermission, taken our seats and then, the lights go out and we now sit in complete darkness.

All too soon we begin wondering what comes next for you can only sit in the dark so long without at least questions – if not something more disconcerting –  rising out of the dark corners of your own imagination. And then, a voice penetrates our unseeing.

The narrator reminds us of an ancient story that we need to be reminded of more often. “The world was in darkness. And into the darkness came a great light…” With these words, our guide through this darkness lights a single candle there at the podium. As he continues to read of the Light of the World, the story unfolds not just in words, but in radiance.

From that single candle, two people approach and light candles of their own. They pass their flames to others and then we realize that in the darkness, the entire choir has entered and has spread throughout the entire chapel. Candle to candle, like dominos of flame, the light passes until the entire cavernous chapel is illuminated with more brilliance than you ever thought possible from candlelight alone.

Soon, as the story winds down, we are all singing together, bathed in this light. It resembles the Great Hall scene at Hogwarts from the Harry Potter movies. Except here, the room reverberates with something more pure, more holy, filled with a transcendent mystery rather than a fictional magic. We have entered as individuals, but we are now one, wrapped in the sameness of light but more than that, sharing a communal song, spirit and hope.

And then, slowly, gradually and with a solemn joy, the choir exits and we are asked to do the same but in silence, departing as this portion of the evening’s experience began, in stillness.

As we exit the chapel, we step out into the cold night air and we collectively gasp, but not from the temperature. Before us, all streetlights and other distractions are now suppressed. Instead, we witness the surprise of hundreds of luminarias lit up and lining the pathways of the Quad, small markers of light that combine to create a wondrous glow.

We began in darkness and together in darkness we experienced a shared light. And now, once again on our own yet somehow still strangely connected, we go forth into the world, much different than when we arrived. We came alone in darkness. We leave, together, illuminated.

To be continued…

If you haven’t read Traveling Light - Part 1 you can do so here

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Laughing with God

by Steve Brock on December 7, 2011

I recently heard this song by Regina Spektor:

It’s not a new song, but it was to me. It stopped me in my tracks when I first listened to it because of its profound truth.

We can be so cavalier about God when everything is going well, but when life starts to fall apart, we take our situations and our view of God more seriously.

The same is true with travel. So many people travel as if on vacation from God rather than on vacation with God. We turn to God when we lose our passports or luggage. We pray when we arrive in a new city without a reservation and all the hotel rooms are booked. And just as they say there are no athiests in a foxhole, I suspect the level of faith dramatically rockets upward in an airplane that is heading the opposite direction.

We don’t laugh at God when we perceive that we need him. But travel makes it so easy to forget that need. Unless you’re heading way off of the usual tourists routes (where the reality of daily life for the majority of the world’s population confronts you with how differently we live), travel today is a pretty comfy affair. Yet I believe it can be made even more enjoyable – and meaningful – when we invite God to join us on our trips not just in the crisis moments but in the good ones as well.

That seems like an odd thought to many: why would God care about our fun? But I believe he cares about every aspect of our lives. So the next time you’re traveling, consider the choices: forget about God and perhaps even laugh at him, or include him and seek him even in the fun times, in all of your travels.

When you do the latter, you encounter moments that are so wondrous they become transcendent. You look on a scene or have a meal or meet someone new and you just want to smile. Or even more, you want to laugh out loud with gladness. And the only thing that makes that moment even better is to know that you’re not laughing alone. At that moment of greatest delight, you improve the experience by realizing that you share it with the One who made it all possible.

You’re laughing with God.

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Old friends, meaningful travel and trolls – Part 2

by Steve Brock November 28, 2011

The stories we share on trips, including this one that concludes our adventure with trolls in an underground Viennese restroom, become part of the collective story we share with friends years after the event and define in unique ways the nature of our relationships.

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It's a small world after all – Part 1

by Steve Brock November 15, 2011

The more you travel, the more you realize – as I found out one evening while visiting a family in Taiwan – how small our world really is.

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Sadness and Serendipity – Part 1

by Steve Brock October 18, 2011

Even on difficult journeys, God provides what we need but in ways we would never expect and often through the kindness of strangers.

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Ugly Beautiful

by Steve Brock October 12, 2011

Some trips, like those involving the loss of a loved one, are journeys we would rather not take…until we do and we discover something beautiful.

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