Pop Culture is Coming to Get Me

Pop culture is coming to get me. I finally gave in to reading Stephanie Meyer's popular teen romance lit about a girl and her vampire because I was tired of not having anything smart and heavily opinionated to say whenever one of my co-workers, friends, or c-train acquaintances started gushing about the latest plot twist. When I sheepishly bought book 2 in HMV after finishing book 1 in less than 2 days, the store clerk asked me if it was for me or for a friend. I said it was for my teen sister Sam, rolled my eyes, and joined the store clerk in cheerfully abusing the series' weak points. Yeah, it was soooo for me. Who knew that New Moon and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban would hold some of the answers to my greatest spiritual desert to date?

...I didn't understand why, but the nebulous threat the men presented drew me toward them. It was a senseless impulse, but I hadn't felt any kind of impulse in so long...I followed it.

Something unfamiliar beat through my veins. Adrenaline, I realized, long absent from my system, drumming my pulse faster and fighting against the lack of sensation. It was strange- why the adrenaline when there was no fear? It was almost as if it were an echo of the last time I'd stood like this, on a dark street in Port Angeles with strangers.

I saw no reason for fear. I couldn't imagine anything in the world that there was left to be afraid of, not physically at least. One of the few advantages of losing everything.

I was half-way across the street when Jess caught up to me and grabbed my arm.

"Bella! You can't go in a bar!" she hissed.

"I'm not going in," I said absently, shaking her hand off. "I just want to see something..."

"Are you crazy?" she whispered. "Are you suicidal?"

That question caught my attention, and my eyes focused on her.

"No, I'm not," my voice sounded defensive, but it was true. I wasn't suicidal. Even in the beginning, when death unquestionably would have been a relief, I didn't consider it. I owed too much to Charlie. I felt too responsible for Renee. I had to think of them.

And I'd made a promise not to do anything stupid or reckless. For all those reasons, I was still breathing.

Remembering that promise, I felt a twinge of guilt, but what I was doing right now didn't really count. It wasn't like I was taking a blade to my wrists.

Jess's eyes were round, her mouth hung open. Her question about suicide had been rhetorical, I realized too late.

"Go eat," I encouraged her, waving toward the fast food. I didn't like the way she looked at me. "I'll catch up in a minute."

I turned away from her, back to the men who were watching us with amused, curious eyes.

"Bella, stop this right now!"

My muscles locked into place, froze me where I stood. Because it wasn't Jessica's voice that rebuked me now. It was a furious voice, a beautiful voice- soft like velvet even though it was irate.

It was his voice- I was exceptionally careful not to think his name-

and I was surprised that the sound of it did not knock me to my

knees, did not curl me into the pavement in a torture of loss. But

there was no pain, none at all. In the instant that I heard his voice,

everything was very clear. Like my head had suddenly surfaced

out of some dark pool. I was more aware of everything- sight,

sound, the feel of the cold air blowing sharply against my face,

the smells coming from the open bar door.

I looked around myself in shock.

"Go back to Jessica," the lovely voice ordered, still angry. "You

promised- nothing stupid."

I was alone. Jessica stood a few feet from me, staring at me

with frightened eyes. Against the wall, the strangers watched,

confused, wondering what I was doing, standing there motionless

in the middle of the street.

I shook my head, trying to understand. I knew he wasn't there,

and yet, he felt improbably close, close for the first time since...

since the end. The anger in his voice was concern, the same

anger that was once very familiar- something I hadn't heard in

what felt like a lifetime.

"Keep your promise," the voice was slipping away, as if the

volume was being turned down on a radio.

I began to suspect that I was having some kind of hallucination.

Triggered, no doubt, by the memory- the deja vu, the strange

familiarity of the situation.

I ran through the possibilities quickly in my head.

Option one: I was crazy. That was the layman's term for people

who heard voices in their heads.

Possible.

Option two: My subconscious mind was giving me what it thought

I wanted. This was wish fulfillment- a momentary relief from pain

by embracing the incorrect idea that he cared whether I lived or

died. Projecting what he would have said if A) he were here, and

B) he would be in any way bothered by something bad happening

to me.

Probable.

I could see no option three, so I hoped it was the second option

and this was just my sub-conscious running amuck, rather than

something I would need to be hospitalized for.

My reaction was hardly sane though- I was grateful. The sound

of his voice was something that I'd feared I was losing, and so,

more than anything else, I felt overwhelming gratitude that my

subconscious had held onto that sound better than my conscious

one had.

-Stephanie Meyer's (2006) New Moon, pp. 109-113.

"Concentrating hard on your happy memory?"

"Oh- yeah-" said Harry, quickly forcing his thoughts back to that

first broom ride. "Expecto patrono- no patronum, -sorry- expecto

patronum, expecto patronum-" Something whooshed suddenly

out of the end of his wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas.

"Did you see that?" said Harry excitedly. "Something happened!"

"Very good," said Lupin, smiling, "Right then- ready to try it on a

Dementor?"

"Yes," said Harry, gripping his wand very tightly, and moving into

the middle of the deserted classroom. He tried to keep his mind

on flying, but something else kept intruding...any second now, he

might hear his mother again...but he shouldn't think that, or he

would hear her again, and he didn't want to...did he?

-J. K. Rowling's (1999) Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban,

pp. 176-177.

I wish I could say that I loved God with the kind of passion Bella

had for Edward. One so deep, so entwined in my nature that

when God is distanced I feel like I have a hole ripped in my chest

and I'm compelled to try to hold myself together, even though I

know I'm fine physically. God is a much more worthy object of

obsession than any man, no matter how good-looking and

velvety-voice endowed. Maybe my grief is not so great because

my rift was not as sudden. Mine was a slow disappearance, like

a tiny leak in my car's engine coolant compartment that adds up

to a collective loss over time, catching me by surprise one day

with an unfamiliar lighted symbol on my dash.

Nevertheless, like both Bella and Harry's characters, I understand

the craving to hear the missing Voice, even if it comes packaged

in anger or pain. The anger and pain indicate, at least, that He

still cares about what I do, about what happens to me. Because

even pissed off, it's still the most beautiful Voice in the world.

And it feels like it's been such a long time since I've heard it in

any tone at all.

My Voice yelled at me about a parking fine I had decided to

allow to go unpaid because a co-worker had advised me it

could be done with no lasting repercussions beyond angry

letters from the company I had offended. It started off with, "Pay

the fine." I was so surprised to hear that Voice tell me anything

clear, that I momentarily sat stunned in my car where I was

waiting for the light to turn green so I could start speeding past

all the slow people to get to wherever it was that I wanted to get

to that day. And then, out of habit, and anger, and longing, and

curiosity, I started arguing. "I don't want to. I don't need to. I

don't have money for that- I need to pay for medical bills,

groceries, rent, and donate to starving children in Africa and

Haiti. They don't deserve my money even if I had it- they charge

way more than what those gravel pits of space are worth."

The Voice argued back with things like, "Render unto Ceasar

what is Ceasar's," "Thou shalt not steal," "Let your conscience

be clear," "Only the wicked fear punishment," "You don't know

the future- maybe they can track your accounts," "You're using

the Justification defense mechanism because you know you

should have paid for the parking in the first place before you

ended up with the tickets and all their late fees," and finally,

"Faye, if you were to die in a car crash today because of your

terrible driving, could you really look me in the face and claim

that not paying this ticket was the right, blameless, just thing to

do?" Then I was reminded of a U B David and I'll B Jonathan

diagram that illustrates how sin creates a chasm between

ourselves and God. I ground my teeth, swearing. Because

He had me caught. "Don't do that- you're wrecking your

teeth," the Voice added. Suddenly I knew how to get coverage

for the teeth guard I'd been agonizing over since my dentist

told me it was crucial in November. Weird.

I paid the [swear-word] ticket. It actually took me a few days,

because I discovered I had run out of cheques, so I had to use

a free sample one my bank had sent me for my VISA. I put it in

a nice Christmas card that said something about peace to the

world. I couldn't bring myself to write them any personal words

of graciousness or repentance, and my mother's Voice helpfully

kicked in and reminded me that If you can't say anything nice,

don't say anything at all. Besides, like the deuce there's

anything kind you can say to a collections department that won't

be taken as either sarcasm or a bribe by the workers there. That's

like sending a Thank-you card to Revenue Canada. It's a sure

way to get yourself audited. In any case, I sent my cheque in the

conveniently labelled and pre-postage paid envelope the Parking

Company had sent me along with the last threatening letter. The

envelope had gotten a little stained from laying on the floor of my

rather dirty car for so many weeks, and I confess I felt some

satisfaction imagining them grimacing as they touched it to

retrieve their payment. That was the most passive-aggressive

method I could think of for conveying a barb along with my olive

branch. I felt God frown. I hoped it was the sort of frown parents

make at their children to discourage inappropriate behaviour,

while the parent is secretly laughing. I suppose in the parable

of the Vineyard Owner's two sons, I'm the grouchy son who

initially refuses to go work when told, but eventually gets up to go

do as asked, probably kicking rocks irritably as he walks but

compelled forward by a greater desire to make his good, loving

father happy. I think I should be concerned about how much

pride I feel in that image of myself. Would I delight in a teen who

consistently whines every time I ask her to do something useful?

I doubt it. I would probably yell at her to "Grow up," then pass out

that eternally grating piece of sage wisdom, "Sometimes we have

to do things we don't want to do. That's life." By which we mean,

of course, Grown-up life. Ohhhhhh.

[Swear-word again]. Seriously, God? That's the whole point of

the riding my bike in the miserable rain for 10 days, paying the

parking ticket, taking that stupid last course at Ambrose that I

hated and nearly failed, and going roller-blading with Dan as I

promised? Because I have to be a Grown-up now? No! I

refuse. I'm going to remain a little boy who never does anything

but play games and have fun and never grows up! Where's

Wendy? I need her to tell me and the other lost boys a story about

how I defeated Hook with Tinkerbell's fairy dust so I can go to

sleep and be rested up for my pretend fight with the Natives

tomorrow.

"That's a lie. You're perfectly capable of making a decision. Stop

holding onto lies, Faye!" The Voice of my friend Lisa, interrupting

my tirade about not knowing what to do about counselling with

Jackie Stinton, Christian Registered Psychotherapist. She says it

again, to make sure I'm listening, "Faye, stop holding onto lies!"

Yes! I know this game. When a teacher repeats some thing, it

means it's going to be on the test and you have to know it. Okay,

paying attention. Shit, she said "lies". Plural. What other

delusions am I holding on to?

Scary Closet

Hey, God. It’s been over a year since I tried meeting you here. Maybe that’s just as well- I no longer have an audience I feel obligated to edit my words for. Though now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say. My thoughts used to feel so complete, tightly controlled, flowing together, cohesive when I wrote. Now all I can get out are broken fragments that don’t even make sense to me. Ironic, when contrasted with all the praise I get at work for my detailed but succinct call documentation. I can see the themes and connections in hundreds of others’ stories and distill them into a maximum three-paragraph-long call card that any reader can understand. So why does it take me ten minutes of staring at the floor, swallowing repeatedly, and conscious self-reminders to breathe to answer a standard question in counseling like, “What relationships do you have right now that can help support you through this?” ? It shouldn’t be that hard- I know the answer. It’s not even a discouraging answer; I am very blessed in my attachment network.

Dan described September with me as being “very busy”. He felt like I was constantly pulling him here, there, and to the next place to meet people, get things done, and do things. He expressed relief that I had slowed down lately. Snort. I told him I’m probably busier now that I was in September; I’ve just stopped dragging him with me to everything. Such a strange contradiction, to be so busy, so kinetic on the outside, yet feel so deathly quiet on the inside. It’s not a stillness in the sense of tranquility, balance, or peace; I just feel frozen. I’m poised with my hand on the door knob of a precariously packed closet that has far too many secret boxes. Conveniently compartmentalized and stuffed away “for later,” each box waits eagerly for the slightest crack in pressure to spring loose in an avalanche that will bury me. It’s the kind of B-grade horror movie you want to throw stale pop-corn at: “Don’t go in there, you fool! It’ll get you!!!” But the door knob has such a magnetic pull to my iron hand; the headlights of that truck are so hypnotically mesmerizing to my dilated eyes. I don’t believe in fate. I do believe in Freudian slips and subconscious desires. Sometimes I also believe in providence.

Creeeeak goes the door knob. FWOOOOP-PLOP-PLOP-PLOP-PLOP-PLOP-THUD goes the precariously packed closet stuff onto my head. Siiiiigh, goes the fool lying on the floor, “Well, now that I’m here…” I peruse the jumbled mass of once-organized items heaped nearest my buried head.

Aha. My unfinished scarf, the loose strings almost as tangled and convoluted as I’d left them back in the summer. Driving home from Lac Ste. Anne with Jen. I have just finished ten grueling days of bike-riding and “free-camping” through the most miserable rain and contrary winds I have ever subjected myself to, a week of emotionally intense interpersonal therapy training in Edmonton, and half a week of spiritually and emotionally confusing tent-city grunge living at the native Catholic pilgrimage site of Lac Ste. Anne. Jen wants to know how I feel about the whole thing. It’s a good thing Jen’s life is more confusing than mine. She takes it rather well when I give her the most honest summary I can come up with: “God, you dragged me through ten days of mud-sodden bike-riding over enormous gravel-roaded hills and “free-camping” through the most miserable rain and contrary winds I have ever experienced, dragged up all my old insecurities about having what it takes for counseling for another week after that, and then gave me half a week of forlorn tent-city wanderings and unanswered hopes in physical healing from diabetes so you can show me that I need to ask for help from other people more often?! I already knew that at home! Screw you, I’m never going on another pilgrimage again!” Some of the loose strings have gotten tangled around something else. I trace the knot with my finger, looking for a way to set the captive object free.

Shiny. The captive is a broken necklace. So many beautiful elements, but the chain links are weak and prone to separating when I pull too hard on the smooth stones that I find so comforting to rub with my thumb. I don’t have the tools or the patience to keep putting it back together. It needs to be made into something new. But that is another daunting task- one I haven’t built enough motivation or creativity to launch, so it too was put aside in the closet. Polished natural stone has always been my preference over the ostentatious glamour of cut gems. There’s more mystery in the depth of natural stone’s weight and swirling patterns of compression, an enigma only ever partially revealed by carving cross-sections. One of the beads is more of an oblong orb. Unwieldy and heavy, I actually don’t like it very much in its present shape. I’m tempted to smash it, to see new, sharper shapes and discover more hidden cross-sections. But I also worry about destroying it in my haste. Light gleams on some of the beads, and I gaze again at each one: so many memories strung together by the common theme of a relationship. Laying on a quilt in the summer, asking God why the hell he would finally reveal a man capable of being my match…when that man is an animist and therefore off limits for me. God told me to go forward anyway- the man’s faith wasn’t exactly what it appeared, and I could invite him “further up and deeper in”. Staring out the window at white winter, watching with horror a vision of myself, Dan, and God dancing together. Dan doesn’t see God; Dan keeps turning his back on God, trying to dance with me alone. I feel so awkward excluding God when God has greater claim on my affections and adventures, but I don’t know how to pull Dan back and make him see the Friendly Giant in the room who is so obvious to me. I give in and offer both hands to Dan alone, feeling God’s hurt the moment I do so. Walking through Nose Hill Park in the spring, hand in hand with Dan. I tentatively ask if he feels anything has changed in his spiritual life over the last year. Relief floods my heart when he responds that he now sees God as more personal, rather than just a great other. Walking through Nose Hill Park in the fall, hand in hand with Dan again. He reveals his fears about marriage in light of his parents’ unexpected divorce, and also his concerns about my condescending attitude towards his faith. Dan also wants me to explain why it upsets me that Dan is amused by his room-mate’s poster of two scantily-clan lesbians locked in an intimate embrace. Driving alone in my car on the Deerfoot, which is slick with ice and half-melted snow. Dan is in BC, visiting friends for a week. The time apart made two things very clear to me: first, I feel like a moon without a planet to orbit when he’s gone. Second, even when Dan’s around, I still feel like a dead, useless rock. Where is the sun that both earth and its moon should be orbiting? I’m driving too fast again, driving while crying again, and I mentally reprimand myself for always leaving these sorts of reflections for solitary car rides on the highway. I picture myself allowing my car to swerve just a touch too close to the snow piled along the curve of the road preceding a very solid-looking concrete overpass. Nope. Considered that last winter too, and I still can’t do it. I can’t hurt my family that way. Dang. Too much force on the knot- the necklace snaps in two and I swivel my head around to see where the second piece has fallen.

There it is. And there’s the thing that went THUD when it hit my head. It’s a bottle of LIFE juice. I grasp the partially empty bottle with mingled irritation and admiration. It is a tall, slender bottle with a trendy, simple label; reminiscent of all the elegance of red wine, without the glass material for the bottle or the disappointing dry, bitter taste that so inappropriately accompanies a liquid so richly coloured. Marketed as a wonder drink for healing, LIFE juice contains nearly all the most anti-carcinogenic ingredients touted by the research Nolan has delved into. Once you get past the mild sea-weed taste, the juice has a fairly enjoyable mixed berries flavour. The only draw-back is that the bottle is too tall to fit vertically, or even diagonally, into any refrigerator I’ve ever encountered. And it’s not helping the one person we most wanted it to. It’s such a dark red, I note idly, still holding the bottle. Red like blood, like pretty packaging used for parcels at Christmas, like grape juice served in little plastic shot glasses at Evangelical church Communion services, like my sleep-deprived eyes, like the powerful chemo drug they’re injecting into my mother’s veins to slow the cancer down. Slow, but not stop, the doctors said. Lieomyosarcoma. A rapidly reproducing cancer that spreads through muscles not controlled by conscious thought- i.e. lungs, the digestive tract, the abdomen, kidneys, etc. Rare, it affects less than 1% of all cancer patients. There are no documented cases of survival. Christian friends from church and beyond keep telling us she is going to live anyway, Jesus will heal her, keep praying, they’re praying. My conscious prayers mainly consist of simple things: “Please God, let her keep down a ½ cup of fruit smoothie today. I put the LIFE juice in it! She hasn’t had anything but a few sips of ginger-ale stay down for three days…” These prayers are answered with “yes” and “no” about equally as often. Well, maybe 50% is pretty good. I mean, maybe people who don’t have this much prayer are only successful keeping telescopic quantities of food down 20% of the time. Seriously, God, what the hell is this? I know you’re capable of better than random chance. Why are you willing to fix the stupid, unnecessary odometer on my car for me even when I don’t speak to you for weeks, but you won’t heal my warm, kind, faithful, loving mother when everyone we know is praying for her?! Priorities!!! Death isn’t the end. She’d be happy in heaven. She could see the Tree of Life where Jono made tick marks for his height and Jesus’ so he could finally find out for sure which is shorter. If mom dies, the last shreds of Chasey’s faith in a just or good God will be annihilated. Nolan’s probably right- this is totally going to be an Elijah + God versus the 450 Baal prophets + 400 Asherah prophets. When mom gets better miraculously, Chasey, maybe Tachae and Jeana, and who knows all else will see the glory and love of God and be changed. How long can I continue working full-time in the helping services while also trying to provide relief care for my mother every other evening and successfully focus on my on-line counseling course starting in the new year before my empathy pool dries up into a puddle? I wonder if anyone ever goes swimming in the River of Life the way the native people go swimming in the blessed holy waters of Lac Ste. Anne. I hope so. I don’t enjoy skating much and if there are any rivers of life left in my soul, they’ve frozen solid like the ones on Mars. I push the bottle aside.

Another shiny glint. Ah, a lighter for camping. Probably one of the ones drowned on my pilgrimage. I wonder if it still lights. Click. Ouch. Damn it, why does anyone ever use those things? Well, now I know it still works... Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see. Through their faith, the people in days of old earned a good reputation (Hebrews 11:1-2). I still believe you’re good, God. I see you in who my mother is, in her loving care for others despite her own suffering. But I don’t understand what you’re doing, and I’m having a hard time taking Valerie’s commission to praise you for the health our mother still has. In some ways, I feel like going to pre-bereavement counseling demonstrates despair. I know you’re capable of healing my mother if you want to. But I also know from personal experience that sometimes you choose not to heal, and sometimes people we want to believe mis-prophesy, and I need to be prepared if you’re planning to take the heart out of our family. I need to know if there's enough lighter fluid left for that potential darkness.

Let it Snow

December: Yes, yes, yes. I know deep, wet snow really sucks for people who must work, live, or drive in it, but I'm SOOOOOOOO happy it's finally here; sparkling white, soft, and making the darkness recede for a day or two. Snow is a soft voice whispering to me, "There's still mercy, even for the fat cows of Bashan. There's a little time left before the desert comes in full." So I went walking in the snow today for all it was worth. There are days of judgment coming, though. The first is the 16th this month. That is the day of my final exam, and the day by which I must hand in my last two papers. I'm feeling very stressed about those papers. They should be easy. They need only be 3 double spaced pages each, and one is already 1/3 done, but I have not handed in a single paper within the allotted amount of time yet this semester, so none of them have earned me any marks greater than 0. This is the consequence for being bitter and unmotivated about having to take an intro class in my 6th year of university. I should have known better: God always uses the topics covered in each of my classes within days or weeks of my learning them in a real life situation. January: The formerly mentioned papers and exam are finished, and now it is a season of waiting. Waiting to find out if I passed my course, and therefore have finished my degree; waiting for my agenda to return from its road trip to Saskatchewan with my sister Val so I can begin trying to pick up additional work shifts this month; waiting to see what God wants me to do with my time and money now that school is done and my nannying hours have been cut from 2 days per week to 1; waiting for my absent room and house-mates to come home to our vacant house of prayer; waiting for summer. This is a strange waiting room, a sort of earthly purgatory. At times I feel as if I don't really exist, yet all of my hours are filled with people and activities and thoughts. I think I might actually be missing school. How ironic that the thing I hated most about University is the thing I now wish for: a consistent schedule with clearly defined dead-lines and directives. Instead, my life now consists of endless days. Not weeks, or months, or semesters, or years. Just days, filled with hours, filled with whatever I choose. My choices are alien to me. For the first time in my life, there are no voracious appetites consuming my passion, no unhealthy addictions distracting me from my path. I feel no desire to read fiction novels, no craving for familiar or unfamiliar stories in a film or textual format. The only foods I feel like eating are fruits, vegetables, and nuts. My fear of at least brief fasts is gone. I spend a day or two here and a day or two there, allowing myself to work, visit, or be alone as opportunities present themselves, content with each state while it lasts. Where are we going, God? I cannot claim to have done anything to achieve this lackadaisical zen, so I'm guessing that You gave it to me as a gift, a preparation. "These are tools, not toys," warned a somber Father Christmas to the Pevensie children of C.S. Lewis' The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. What do you need me to be prepared for, God? "Uh oh," understates Pauncha, tied to a log floating down a river. "Let me guess," drolls the surprisingly resilient Emperor Kuzko tied to the same log, "We're about to go careening over a huge waterfall." "Yep," answers Pauncha matter-of-factly. "Sharp rocks at the bottom?" inquires Kuzko with disinterest. "Most likely," Pauncha replies calmly. "Bring it on."

Statues Run Really Fast

An addendum to the previous post: children have very little difficulty suspending their disbelief in the illogical or impossible. I should concede: L's mommy and li'l girl game has morphed somewhat into a new theme- that of monsters and heroes, good guys and bad guys. However, L is a liberal-minded girl, so monsters are not necessarily bad guys. Hence, one of her favourite games to play outside is the statue game. The statue game is quite simple: when L is tired of walking, she pretends to be a statue, symbolized classically by the British royal guard posture. Then she looks at me and prompts, "You say, 'Look mom, a statue!' Okay?!" Something in me cries out against this potential loss of my independence so I have never yet obliged her by saying those exact words, though what difference it makes I have no idea. "Oh my goodness," I respond with amazement, "It's a talking statue! Weird!" By this time, L is re-energized and ready to move again, so she grins and proposes, "Let's have a race!" "A race with a statue?" "Yep, cuz statues run really fast," L informs me seriously. "Yeah, statues run really fast," I agree. Did I just say that? Oblivious to my psychological dissonance, Lauren happily continues prodding me, "And then you go, 'Hey mom, the statue is following us.'" "AAUUUGGGHHHHH! That statue is following me! I can't get away! What does it want??!" I cry in angst, to L's delight. And when eventually the talking, grinning, fast-running statue catches her terrified prey (me), she invites me over to her house for a cup of tea. What the?!...Where am I??? Well obviously I'm in the middle of a Get Fuzzy comic strip. I kind of enjoy the surrealism, though. I imagine Jesus' disciples must have had similar feelings when he'd do things like cook them breakfast on the beach after they had watched him get tortured to death and buried. Come along, Faye, and embrace the weirdness. Yes, God.

The Nanny Club

Contrary to popular belief, this is not a long, blunt object I take with me to work to assist in child-wrangling. Nor is it something hard I feel the need to beat my head with repeatedly during the day. Actually, it refers to the fact that I have joined the ranks of nannies attending every family's children in the well-manicured blocks of Calgary. To my surprise, nannying is proving to be the highlight of my week. I care for two very cute, very energetic, very imaginative girls, ages 3 and 5, about 1-3 days per week...and I am sure this is God's recompense for all the days my mother got a phone call from my elementary wondering why I was an hour late to school after lunch again. Much of the time, I feel like I am losing my mind. Especially by 2:30 when L, the three year old, is prodding me to say my line in our mommy and li'l girl game for the 27th time that day. It doesn't matter that we are supposed to be colouring now, because "This is the mommy crayon, and this is the daddy crayon, and this is the baby crayon. You be the daddy crayon and the mommy crayon and I'll be the baby crayon. So the baby is hiding over here and the mommy crayon says, 'Where's the baby?' Okay?!!" She's not really asking if I want to do that; rather, L's graciously reminding the idiot nanny of what she's somehow forgotten to do even after three and a half months' practice and today's rehearsal at lunch in which, "This [piece of celery] is the mommy, and this [piece of cheese] is the daddy, and these [cherry tomatoes] are the babies. You be the mommy and this baby and I'll be the daddy and this baby. And the mommy celery says, 'Where's the baby?!' Okay?!!" "Yeah, sure, okay. Heeey, how about we take the dog for a walk?" I wheedle, as if changing the scenery will somehow distract her from her favourite schema. Unphased, she replies, "No thanks. Let's go play the restaurant game!" The restaurant game is a variant of the mommy and li'l girl game in which one of us is a restaurant chef and the other is the mommy, who has at least 2 baby doll girls with her who like donuts and fried chicken but not turnips. "No, your mom asked us to take the dog for a walk, so we're going to go for a walk," I insist with a voice that cleverly hides my desperation in grown-up firmness. Trumped by the mommy card, L acquiesces that we must go, but isn't above a little more bargaining; "Can I ride my bike?" "No, not today. It's too icy." "Can we go to the park?" "Sure, we can go to the park." "HOORAY! Then you be the mommy, and I'll be the little girl, and Rosie [their uber-friendly little dog] can be our baby puppy!...." GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! So how did I get myself into this predicament? Well, per usual, it's God's fault. When I finished last semester's winter classes, I fully intended to go straight into hunting for a full-time job within walking distance of my house doing something directly related to family counselling. I applied to every teen group home agency in Calgary. Not even an e-mail of interest in response. I took my resume to my friend, who helped me edit it so it looked more professional and tried again. Nothing. I started applying for other things: relief child development workers, high school career counsellors, school-family liaison workers, psychologist assistant positions... I couldn't understand my lack of success. Everyone I knew already in those agencies insisted they were desperate for workers and would hire anyone breathing who applied and didn't have a record of pedophilia. Fellow class-mates informed me I was probably over-qualified for many of the positions I was applying for. What the deuce? So one day, more than two months into the summer when I was bemoaning my continued part-time employment as a glorified house-keeper to my friend Melanie, with whom I was hanging out while she nannied for her "second family," Melanie suggested I try becoming a nanny. "I make $18 an hour to make crafts, drink their expensive lattes, watch moto-cross and the Backyardigans, eat fresh fruit, put the kids to bed, then search the web for my ideal tattoo for hours. You should try it- with your education you could easily be making as much as me." So she set me up on www.canadiannannies.com. Two weeks later, I had found my ideal family- part-time work with two preschoolers, needed on the days I wasn't at school, the position conveniently to commence after Nolan & Sherry's wedding and Jen's move to Strathmore. The first meeting was with just the parents at a Starbucks. Uncharacteristically early, I sat out in my car and prayed, "God, I don't want to do something meaningless. If this is the family you want me to work with, then please make it abundantly clear to both me and them at this meeting." The meeting went well. Their descriptions of their girls were hauntingly similar to how Melanie and I have described ourselves and our relationship when we were much younger, the schedules looked like a match, and the family lived within 15 minutes drive of both my house-keeping job and my school. But, most intriguing, they were fascinated with my experience as a summer missionary at a bible camp. "I think that's great," A (the mom) told me earnestly, "One of the reasons we wanted a nanny was so that our girls would be exposed to another worldview other than our own. We're not Christians ourselves, but we have some good friends and family who are. I think it'd be neat if you'd tell the girls some bible stories, or pray with them at lunch. It's something they wouldn't get from us." You really can't get a more obviously open door than that. Okay, God, I guess I'm going to be a nanny. At times my job is surreal. I get paid $15 an hour to eat food made by one of the best chefs in Calgary, drink Starbucks coffee, jump on a trampoline, go swimming at the local leisure centre, visit Heritage Park, colour pictures, play at the park, make talking cookies out of playdough, run with two girls and a dog surrounded by woods, wild grasses, hills, a creek, and the mountains at sunset or sunrise, sing camp songs, read Robert Munsch tales, go tobogganing, make snow reindeer, and tell the girls stories about my childhood and God. Moments of pure joy, of absolute beauty. Admittedly, I have found it necessary for the sake of my sanity to limit the girls to telling each of my stories once per day, but I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I see and hear God every time I see or hear the girls. It all began when God started nudging me to at least thank Him for our food when I was making lunch for L. So I did. "That's a funny word you just said," L commented. "Which word?" I asked, puzzled. "That word that you said just now," L said, as if that made everything obvious. Oh wait. "You mean, 'Jesus'?" "Yeah, that one. That's a funny word." This lead to my first, somewhat clumsy explanation of who Jesus is. It was also the first time L ate her entire lunch within a decent amount of time with no prompts, bribes, threats, persuasion, or cajoling whatsoever. Our next lunch together, after I prayed, L asked, "Who's Jesus?" This time, I gave her the background of why Jesus came to earth- beginning with the story of Creation and The Fall. She was hooked. For weeks afterward, she would ask, "Who's Jesus?" every day I saw her. She even began asking her mother, who, being something of a religious pluralist, seemed a bit disconcerted, much to my fiendish delight. On one of the rare occasions when I was working in the evening and therefore looking after both girls, L innocently asked her favourite question. So I sucked it up and told her the story again. And, as God says, it was good. L's older sister, C had never heard it before. Now they are both hooked. They ask for the story when we drive in the car, when we eat snacks or meals, when we go for walks. To avoid either losing my mind or disobeying God's firm nudges to keep letting them come unto Me and hindering them not (Matt. 19:14; Mark 10:14; Luke 18:16), I slightly change the story each time, adding a bit more to pull the stories of Creation, the Fall, the Virgin Birth, the Crucifixion and Resurrection, and their immediate lives together. I have never been good at evangelism. This is probably both a personality thing (I'm not especially out-going) and a reaction against poorly conducted evangelism (though that's not a good excuse- the cure for bad theology and evangelism is not no theology or evangelism). Well, this time I have no excuse. I was given full permission to speak by the girls' parents. I have a warm relationship of trust built with the girls that lends credulity to my stories of faith. So I tell the story. Over and over and over again. And consequently, God is revealing to me what Jesus meant when he said, "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matthew 18:3). Children like repetition. Lots and lots and lots of repetition. See above. Children like asking questions. Lots and lots and lots of questions. More tenacious than a news reporter, they want to know when, what, why, who, and how: "Are we there yet? Do you know...? What's that? How long is five minutes? Why? Where's the beetle's house? When can we eat? Where is your mommy and papa? How do I say that word? Does your mommy let you have candy? Why not? How do you make a three? Is God here having supper with us right now? Can you sit on God's head?" Children passionately and optimistically seek the time, attention, and affection of their parents and parent-like figures in their lives: "I made this picture for you, mommy! I'm helping, daddy! Will you please play with me? Can I help clean? Watch what I can do- I can hop on one foot. See?! Can you please read me a story? Look at the necklace I made for you. Will you carry me? Guess what?! I got all my spelling words right!" Children are incredibly trusting: "Catch me! I'm jumping down the stairs! Push me higher! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha- swerve the car again!" ...but only of people they know who have proved trustworthy: "You can't talk to a stranger." And the nanny club continues. Last week I set my room-mate, Jaz, up on canadiannannies.com- she's now enjoying the ego-boosting experience A terms "nanny-poaching" of having middle to upper class suburban moms run each other's white, black, or silver coloured Volvo, VW, or BMW off the road to attain Jaz' services for their li'l shining stars. And if the price is right, Jaz may soon join the club of getting paid $16 per hour to take a nap, go for a walk to the park, and drink other people's expensive teas and coffees. Amen.

A Walk to Remember

1-2 August 2008 I guess it was just that time of the month again. That’s right: the time of the month for Faye to have another misadventure related to being Faye and going the wrong way at the wrong time…or the right way at the wrong time…or the wrong way at the right time, depending on how you want to look at it. I have included, for your convenience, two maps to explain how this story came to be. One is the map I used, and the other is the map I had in my head that I should have used but couldn’t find and didn’t think to ask Nolan for until after it was much too late. On the map I should have used, you will see that there appears to be a relatively short path leading from Elbow Pass to Elbow Lake to Tombstone Backcountry Campground. This is the route I had pictured in my head from a previous back-packing excursion to Elbow Lake with Vicky and Carolyn. This is the route Nolan, Sherry, Melanie, and Chasey took on Friday morning to get to the campground for our sibling back-packing trip. This is a nice, mostly gently-sloped and straightforward 7 kilometer long hike that takes approximately 3 hours to traverse. This is the route I was supposed to take in the evening with Dan after he got off work.

Unfortunately, the on-line instructions I looked up linked me with the second map. As you can see, this second map involves a large eye-shaped loop. We started at a lonely northern spot with the prophetic name of Forgetmenot Pond and took the southern path past Big Elbow Campground and on towards Tombstone. This path was composed of flooded out trail sections, alternating steep ascents and descents, and is approximately 28 kilometers in length. This is the route Dan and I started at 8pm on Friday.

Friday started out well enough. Melanie, Chasey, and I were only 15 minutes late arriving at Nolan and Sherry's house to pack our belongings in among the large amounts of borrowed camping gear Sherry had scavenged from friends. Almost two hours later, I left Melanie and Chasey with Nolan and Sherry to drive up together, and I took the backpacks Dan and myself would be carrying later. I went to work for an hour and managed to avoid getting wood stain on my clothing despite my frenzied painting, then raced across the city and was only five minutes late meeting Lisa for lunch. I had enough money in my account to pay for my meal. After lunch, I stopped at Safeway to pick up a few grocery items my siblings had requested, then returned my dad's car to him. I finished laundry, filled water bottles, packed the last groceries and a hatchet into the backpacks, made a picnic dinner for Dan and myself, showered and changed clothes. At my dad's request, I wrote out detailed instructions on how to get to Tombstone, since my parents had decided to meet us there on Monday to celebrate Melanie's birthday. At 5 pm, Chasey called to ask when I thought Dan and I were leaving (I had to admit I didn't really know when he would get off of work) and to tell me that it was pouring there. Then he confused me thoroughly with a comment about leaving the campsite to go to Cochrane until the weather was nicer. Oh. I guess that means the trail is really short. That's good- we won't have much day-light left by the time we start our hike.

Shortly thereafter, Dan called to say he would arrive shortly and that we needed to stop at his house to pick up a few things. I hugged my mother good-bye, we loaded Dan's car with the gear, and set off to pick up a few essentials, such as oil and gas for Dan's car so we wouldn't end up stranded on the highway somewhere. The sun was shining, Dan appeared happy with my odd food choices (spicy canned salmon with garlic dill pickles and marble cheddar on squirrely bread, carrot-pineapple-strawberry-banana-cherry-blueberry-yogurt smoothies, fresh avocados, and a choice of fresh fruit), and Dan managed to simultaneously navigate my i-pod's sound settings while also driving on 16th Avenue reading a road map without crashing. It occurred to me that I should call home and make sure my parents knew where they were going. Even though I thoroughly confused them both with my anti-map interpretation skills, Dan and my dad seemed to be in agreement about how to get there. I was satisfied. I band-aided and duck-taped my heel (in a completely unrelated previous misadventure I accidentally cut my heel open when I stepped in a hole in a tree grate down-town after leaving the DC because I was there for a shift I didn't actually have).

"We just drive until the road pretty much ends," Dan explained patiently. The map said he was right. It just didn't make any sense to me. The road just kept going when Carolyn, Vicky, and I turned into the parking lot for Elbow Lake. Where's the rest of the road? And why isn't Galatea anywhere on the map? I know we passed Galatea on the way there... Dad said my instructions were the "back way." Maybe we're just coming in from the opposite side and the map doesn't show the rest of the road clearly. Stupid map. Feeling nervous, I sent a silent plea to God, asking for his protection and guidance for the weekend.

The air was much colder by the time we found the correct parking lot for the trail head. As Dan had said, the road simply ended- it was a camping site. Neither the parking lot nor the camping ground were at all familiar, and I didn't recognize any of the other vehicles in the parking lot, but since I had no suggestions for how to find the trail head to Elbow Lake I remembered and we were standing in front of a sign for the Elbow Trail, I decided to just go with it. The sign was nearly illegible with corrosion, so we counted ourselves fortunate when an older lady came out of her RV to ask us where we were going. 

"You're going where?!" her eyes bugged out in disbelief, "Tonight?! Are you sure you don't want to just stay the night here and then start in the morning?" When we'd convinced her that we were in earnest about starting out, she asked which way we intended to travel- taking the Little Elbow or the Big Elbow Trail. I think we told her the Little Elbow, and we followed her directions precisely, so how we ended up on the Big Elbow will always remain a mystery. Regardless, my optimistic estimate for time of arrival in Tombstone was midnight, but gauging from the lady's reaction I strongly suspected a more realistic guess would be 2:00am. Last night's five hours of sleep is going to feel like a long, long time ago...And so, after waving a friendly goodbye in response to the lady's "see you in an hour" and leaving behind a bottle of glacier-cold water we didn't want to carry with us, we began.

There weren't many other people on the trail, though we did pass two couples going in the opposite direction in the first half-hour of our trip. Warning signs instructed us to avoid the equestrian trails, since these were completely flooded out. As we came out of a forested area and were about to begin a more open segment beside a creek, we found an information sign reminiscent of the ones posted at the tops of amusement rides like the Drop of Doom. It read: "You are about to begin a 28 kilometer hike. ARE YOU PREPARED?" I felt my stomach drop a bit. No wonder the others felt they needed to leave in the morning...No wonder they'd called wondering why Dan and I hadn't left yet... I felt very glad Dan was holding my hand.  Dan wisely chose that time to start telling me stories about previous camping adventures he'd had with his best friends.  Apparently, just for kicks, they like to walk as far off mountain trails as they can go, then camp where no one would ever be able to find them again should they have some sort of minor mishap, like getting mauled by a bear.  I felt much better.  The knowledge that I wasn't the most experienced camper of the two of us was reassuring.

We walked.  I felt a bit shaky, so I proactively pulled out the fruit left over from supper to eat as we walked.  I still felt shaky, so I proactively ate an entire package of Starburst, after which I felt much better but my tongue felt much less so.  I silently asked God to please not let me die of a low blood sugar level while we were out here in the middle of nowhere.  A comfort and a silent voice whispered back, "I'm here.  And this would be a very good opportunity to initiate praying out loud with Dan."  The path wove in and out of wooded areas along creeks that would occasionally branch off in directions such as perpendicular to our path.  No problem.  There was still enough light left to figure out where the path resumed again later, and enough rocks that our feet didn't get particularly wet.

We walked.  The wind became colder.  We stopped cursing our hoodies for being so warm.  We discussed things like how the feeling of having a heavy backpack digging into your shoulders, pressing you down, and crushing your lungs might be sort of similar to crucifixion.  While retrieving our coats we discovered that we also had among our assets a head-lamp and a small flashlight.  Oh yeah, Sherry loaned hers to me this morning.  I totally forgot.  Thanks, God.  Since it was now late dusk, we proactively put the flashlights in our pockets where we had a hope of finding them again.  Despite the fact that there were no clouds above us, intermittent showers would follow us around wherever we walked.  Dang cariboo, hiding in the shrubs beside the path and spitting at unsuspecting tourists.  We ate granola bars to spite them.  When we stopped at the 3 or 4 hour's walking mark, I mentally determined that I may need to scale back my delirious ambitions of walking 8 hours per day on next summer's pilgrimage.

We stopped.  Admired the stars coming out.  I ate a package of gummies half way up what we would later be horrified to discover was only the first of endless long, steep inclines in the path.  God, I'm running out of reaction candy.  Help.  A familiar voice whispered again, "You need to pray out loud with Dan."  Why is that such a hard request? I asked myself.  So at long last, I began praying out loud: "Hey God, thank you for looking after us this far.  Please let the food last until we reach the others.  Please continue helping me not have low blood sugars.  Please let the others still be awake and waiting for us when we arrive so we'll be able to find them in the dark.  Amen."  I felt better. 

It became increasingly dark.  Eventually we were able to determine our direction only because the path was a light grey blotch which contrasted with the black blotches that were forests of trees on either side of us and the black sky above us.  The hard crunch of white stones beneath our tired feet was comforting: it meant that we were still on the path.  We ceased talking, except for occasional comments such as, "Hey, I just walked into a shrubbery."  I considered pushing Dan into the trees sometimes, but I was too tired and I was pretty sure that Dan was too tired to take it jovially.  

"Is that a sign?"  We squinted.  I found my flashlight first, and it was just bright enough to highlight the words, "Big Elbow Campground."  "No way," I felt myself shrink a little on the inside; we were only half-way there and it was past 11:00 pm.  We used the headlamp to look at another sign across from the first, which turned out to be a map.  After Dan talked me out of just hiking into the Big Elbow Campsite and illegally camping there, we headed on once again.  Then our path disappeared.  Or maybe just the moonlight we'd been using to see it.  Dan attempted to dig out the headlamp, but dropped it into the abyss of darkness at our feet.  I retrieved my flashlight and prayed it still had enough light left to find the headlamp.  It did.  Exactly.  Then it died.  We found the path again and turned the headlamp off until absolutely needed.  

"Do any of these mountains like a tombstone to you?" Dan asked, looking around.  "They all do," I told him, only half-joking.  "Hey, is that a sign?"  We fished out the headlamp.  Yes, it was a sign.  It was a sign for a snow-mobiling path.   I could have cried.  We kept walking.  The path began to sort itself into a pattern of long ascents and descents.  Dan worked to keep us both going with optimistic statements like, "The campground has to be at the top of this rise," or "It must be at the bottom of this hill."  We stopped a few times so I could desperately shout at the top of my lungs, "Nolan?  Melanie?  Chasey?  Sherry?  HELL-OOOO!!!  HELLO?!"  I began to doubt myself: did we miss a turn-off in the mysteries of the thick growth?  Did we pass right by the camp and were now on our way to the Mt. Romulus campground?  "No," Dan rationally assured me over and over, "The map showed Tombstone as being on the curve before the next long straight to Romulus.  We haven't gone around any large curves yet, and worse case scenario if we did we'd only end up at Romulus next anyways."  

The time came when we absolutely needed the headlamp.  It was because we didn't want to step in the minor creeks crossing our path at the bottom of every descent.  Actually, crossing those puddles and creeks were the only times when Dan and I stopped holding hands.  Which was good, because between the slipperiness of the path rocks, the slopes, and my knees occasionally going on vacations, it was really handy to have someone there to hold me up (pun entirely intended).  Although slightly distracted by the fact that I desperately needed to pee, and had been in such a state for hours, I was reminded of an earlier conversation with Dan in which he told me about a dream where he was carrying/supporting me.  At the time, I laughed because of the particular symbols used to convey that idea, but I had recognized the conversation as being an answer from God to my doubts.  So here was the dream, incarnated.  And really, it felt kind of dream-like at times.  There was a sense of timelessness that enveloped us there, a bittersweet rhythm.  I really want to stop walking and lay down and sleep.  But the stars are really beautiful.  I really need to pee.  But I'm really happy holding Dan's hand and walking in the silence and freshness of the mountains.  

And then we really needed the headlamp.   Not only had clouds covered over the moon and eliminated our only natural light, but there was nothing for the moonlight to reflect on- our path was composed of dirt and pine needles.  We came to the top of a rise where the path followed the edge of a cliff and were sliced with a particularly icy wind.  There was no sign of our campground, just another for snowmobiling.  I decided it was time for a private trip into the woods.  When I came back, Dan suggested we sit and rest for a while.  We did.  I started to fall asleep. Then I became cold.  I was still wearing shorts and it was windy and raining and cold.  I asked Dan if he wanted to continue walking or to just set up camp where we were and continue again in the morning.  "Well we can't camp here- the wind's too cold and the rocky path will really suck to sleep on," Dan answered.  I vaguely considered pushing him off the cliff, but I was too tired.  Sigh.  Fine, I guess we'll keep walking, I thought dismally as my teeth began to chatter.   But apparently what Dan actually meant was that we should set up the tent in the woods behind us where it was softer and more sheltered.  Thank you God, for leaving us one of the tents.  

And so, feeling sort of useless, I held up the headlamp with my frozen hands while Dan figured out in the dark in the woods in the rain how to put up our tent.  I mentally chastised myself for feeling grouchy about how long it was taking, since I was sure Dan's hands were probably colder than mine from trying to get the tent together.   Amazingly, the only thing Dan wasn't able to figure out at 4 in the morning after five hours of sleep the night previous and approximately 8 hours hiking after 8 hours work, was the entrance way to the tent.  Getting sleeping bags unpacked, wet layers off, and dry, warm layers on in our tent, which was located on a slant, in a modest manner was interesting.  I curled up in my sleeping bag and felt like I was going to die of cold.  Dan told me stories about winter camping.  Dan, I am NEVER going winter camping with you.  Ever.  

I did fall asleep.  I didn't freeze to death.  I did end up sliding down to the bottom of the tent and then having to worm my way back up to the top again a few times.  I didn't wake up Dan when I started giggling about being unable to worm up the slippery, sloped floor of our tent while cocooned in a twisted up sleeping bag.  I did thank God that I had switched our family's thin sleeping bag for the newer and warmer one I had borrowed from Andrea.  I didn't have any low blood sugars in the night (Thank you, God, again).  I did find myself sort of curled up against Dan in the morning.  I didn't feel too guilty about it since we were in separate sleeping bags.  I did get up to go to the bathroom, get dressed, and take my blood test before Dan woke up.  Except it wasn't as easy as it sounds, because our tent had slid downhill in the night and the door was now right up against a pine tree which I had to climb around while also climbing over our wet gear and climbing into my wet shoes.  

Still, the morning felt good.  Much to my satisfaction, my guess at the time being about 9 am was off by only 3 minutes according to my blood tester.  To my irritation, my blood test was quite high.  I took a small amount of insulin to bring it back down again, found some dried blueberries and cranberries for Dan to eat, and helped pack up the gear again.  Food remaining in our possession: a package of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows, a bag of sliced mushrooms, and a bag of smushed tomatoes.  We decided we wanted real food with my siblings.  We started walking.

Unfortunately, the path became much narrower after our camping break so we had a difficult time holding hands while walking.  Other things made up for this, though; such as the warm sunshine and the discovery of wild strawberries growing alongside the cliff-bordering path.  My sense of relationship equity was restored when I discovered I was much better at making these discoveries than Dan.  

Then we came to a creek.  Our pathway continued on the other side.  There were no stepping stones or logs to use as a bridge.  It was too wide and deep to jump across.  "Let's try going further down.  Maybe there's another place to cross," I suggested.  There wasn't.  So we took off our shoes and socks, rolled up our pants, put on our sandals, and broke open the package of graham crackers.  If you're going to cross a glacier cold creek with extremely sore muscles and little sleep, it's better to do it fortified with some kind of sustenance.  Then we crossed.  I laughed at Dan when his pants became wet but I considerately didn't push him over.  Once on the other side, we walked through scrubby low shrubs, crossed another glacier cold stream, then discovered that the path crossed back the way it came so we had to cross the small and large glacier cold creeks all over again.  Fortunately, the fifth time we came to a creek needing to be crossed, there were some stepping stones, and the sixth crossing had a nice 3 inch wide log to cross, provided one's balance was steady.  

Then we were at the bottom of a hill.  At the top of the hill we could see a sign.  We decided to switch back into our hiking shoes, then start up the hill to read it.  Holding hands, we stared up at the hill.  It wasn't a large hill, but it seemed huge to our miserable calf muscles.  "If that's another snowmobiling sign, can we vandalize it?" I asked Dan.  "Yes," said Dan magnanimously, "Or at least throw rocks at it.  I think that would make me feel much better."  "Okay."  So we started up.  And the sign said...

"Welcome to Tombstone Backcountry Campground."  And there was Sherry, sitting on the path warming herself in the sun.  She looked kind of surprised to see us (in a welcoming, happy sort of surprised way).  "Hey!  Nolan and Chasey just left to go looking for you.  They went the other way.  We weren't expecting you from this direction...I'll see if I can run and catch them."  Melanie came over to welcome us to their campsite, and not long after Sherry returned with Nolan and Chasey.  Nolan and Sherry kindly heated up and served us leftover chili from the night before.  Nothing ever tasted so great.  "Ha, ha!" cried Nolan triumphantly, "Sherry thought you'd stopped in Little Elbow to camp when it got too late.  I rolled my eyes and said, 'Yeah right.  It's Faye.  She's probably gotten lost and is on some ridiculous misadventure.'"  Then, in order to prevent a similar misadventure story from happening to my parents, to whom I had given an identical cursed map for getting to the campsite, Nolan and Chasey had to hike to the bottom of the mountain to find a phone to redirect our parents.  And Dan and I?  Well, we went back to bed (for a couple hours, in separate sleeping bags, in a dry, properly set up, level tent, under the watch of my siblings).  The End.  Or should I say, 'Amen'?