I drive 555 miles every two weeks. Old widower (me) in Virginia married widow a in Georgia two years ago, so I drive back and forth. The wheel time, according to two map apps, is usually 8 hours and 43 or minutes. Actual time is a bit over 9 to 10 plus depending on wrecks, construction, and weather. It’s a long day of thought and prayer. Much longer than the “Therapy Road” I drove for work trips up in DC, MD, or PA for over two decades.
In 2009 I wrote a short post about my travels on US Route 17 in Tidewater Virginia as my “vol de nuit.” That’s a reference to the philosophical short book I had to read in French by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry a very long time ago.
https://jatticus.wordpress.com/2009/02/04/vol-de-nuit-on-route-17/
Therapy Road was 2 hours and 30 minutes. This haul is all day averaging 5 times every two months which equals 30 days a year or one month a year on the road. That’s a lot of time.
It’s worth it to me, because she had one foot tied to her home helping with her aged mother until she passed at age 94 earlier this year. The other foot restraint is her duty as an elected judge until the end of 2026.
It’s important to me to not uproot because I have two grown children and three grandchildren here, church home and Deacon duty, and the incredible home, which is truly a gift from the Lord, that I named “Sanctuary” where its backyard is The Bay
Her home, called “Harmony” for the road running by and what it means to us, is big, bucolic beauty hidden among acres of trees and set above a goodly-sized pond. And, she has an old rescue dog who might not travel well – to completely understate it.
We got a good deal on satellite radio so I have a long list of “pre-set” music genres, a number of podcast series on my phone, a personalized many hours with my “writing” music list on my phone, and regular radio if desired.
Near the halfway point there’s a Buccee’s in South Carolina if I need an eyeful and earful of body crush Americana. Sometimes, with a side of coffee, BBQ sandwich, or sugar coma-inducing fudge after a visit to the cleanest, commercial WC on the continent.
Sometimes I drive a couple of hours in absolute silence. I hear my thoughts, as usual.
Sometimes, when in the glorious heat of the South, I open the windows and just sweat happily.
Sometimes, heading east on US Route 58 (where county mounties and state troopers well ticket the unsuspecting and traffic cameras capture as well) the traffic is snarled on the beltway around “Hampton Roads.” So, the map apps take me through the Southside Virginia country for over an hour to sneak up on the James River Bridge and avoid the Monitor-Merrimack (“Merrimack” should be “Virginia”)Bridge-Tunnel altogether. That is the most glorious time even though I’m quite tired by then. I’ll roll down the windows just for the smell.
Sometimes, I call family or friends to catch up.
Often, I think about family I’d like to call, especially to share a memory invoked by music, but they’ve passed to glory.
I think about things big and small.
I review the whole of my life. Review my mistakes, inequities and sin, foolishness and goofs, as well as waste and folly. That can take quite some time since I’m 74.
I pray for forgiveness and give thanks for justification.
I pray without ceasing by sharing my thoughts with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I pray, beseeching so, for my beloved ones in detail. Then, I give gratitude.
I give a lot of thanks for every gift in life. From earliest fond, warm memories of family to the tiniest thoughtful touch it seems the all-knowing, all-powerful, all-sovereign, one, true, living God has given me.
I think a lot about my writing. About the weave of history, culture, people, and events that unfold into foreseeable futures.
I feel how powerless I am to fix problems where I see solutions or people where I hold hope. I think about the tragic folly of the world. Of humanity. And, yet, thrive on the intensity of living that makes life worth living.
Then, as music brings some detailed memory back to life, I feel as alive as I did then, no matter how long ago or far away. I sing.
I think about books to read and more to write. I feel as alive and excited and interested in people, events, and ideas which request the words to express them – as I ever did.
Over and over I think about those I know and love. Family, kin, and friends. Here and gone. And I rejoice, exult, and exclaim my gratitude to my Lord God.
I’ve written enough, even though there’s so much more to share from those hours alone (but never truly by myself whilst the Holy Spirit indwells me).
Methinks my 555 mile trips add up to a month well spent.
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