It's impossible not to be a on spiritual high in Colorado. Here are a few more pictures. Contact me if you would like to see the slideshow I put together.
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The last couple blogs have been pre-scheduled. You aren’t supposed to announce on the Internet that you are away from home, your husband off in Africa and your house standing empty waiting to be cleaned out by some unscrupulous reader. But I was in COLORADO for my nephew’s wedding. (CONGRATULATIONS STUART AND EMILY!!!) In a grove at the bottom of the hill at the end of the subdivision where my daughter lives, there is a cemetery. I don’t know how many people even know it’s there. The way is overgrown with weeds (and full of ticks.) My daughter’s neighbor discovered it when her dog got away from her on a walk. The names on some of the gravestones match the name of the street where the subdivision starts. Was that the family who once owned this land? The dates are mostly in the 1830s to 50s. The nearby town of Clarksville, Tennessee, founded in the 1780s, was already a thriving community on the Cumberland River with shops and schools. Confederate president Jefferson Davis was born nearby. What better way for my husband to recuperate from his heart attack than a cruise to Alaska? Actually, we had been planning last week’s trip for some time, and it almost had to be cancelled for rehab. We skipped Glacier National Park and Yellowstone, flew to Seattle instead of driving, and my husband promised to work out regularly in the ship’s gym. Permission granted! Alaska is fabulous even in the rain—rugged mountains, spell-binding glaciers, forests dripping with moss and waterfalls at every turn. I broke in my new camera, trying to learn how to use a few of its many features. The song that kept going through my head was the old Swedish hymn, "How Great Thou Art." By all appearances it was an idyllic little town surrounded by miles and miles of sweeping grasslands. The streets around the classic Dutch Reformed Church at its heart reminded me of Bulawayo, Zimbabwe—broad enough to turn a span of eight oxen. The houses were quaint reminders of a former era. They were a bit run down, perhaps, and the unpaved side streets showed erosion from recent rain. Most of the buildings were Edwardian or late Victorian. A good development committee might turn the town into an arts center or major tourist attraction. But the era was not as idyllic as it appeared on the surface.
As my daughter drove me to the airport, I was suddenly reminded that I was leaving my comfort zone. What have you forgotten? my cramping stomach asked. What all-important detail have you let fall between the cracks? Usually my husband takes care of travel logistics; I am notoriously bad at them. But he was already in Africa. And he would not be meeting me in Johannesburg to pick up the pieces either. This time I would be the one to pick him up when he arrived at Oliver Tombo International from Mozambique on Saturday. I was on my own to pick up the rental car and find my way to the mission guesthouse. I have the best mother-in-law in the world. We recently spent a week driving cross-country together. We both have fantasies of a simple RV. “I’d like to be able to stop in a scenic spot, get out my lawn chair and read a while with my cup of coffee and then move on,” she once told me. Both our husbands preferred planned routes, comfortable beds and reservations made well ahead of time. Her husband passed away in 2004. Mine had meetings in California after my writer’s retreat in Monterey. I posted on International Christian Fiction Writers about my recent trip to Kenya to train African writers for young adults.
“Don’t look down,” my coach told me. “Focus on the goal”—not the hot coals under your feet. (Rich didn’t say that last part. Mentioning hot coals would turn my mind in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go.) “Cool moss, cool moss—chant it as you walk”—on the hot coals that you aren’t thinking about. The Southern and East Africa leadership of our organization, SIM, was meeting at Carmel Christian Accomodation and Convention Center outside George, South Africa. The view of Victoria Bay was spectacular. Mountain mists watered colorful gardens each morning. We even saw whales frolicking in the surf when we hiked down to the beach. The suitcases are unpacked; the blisters turned to callus and my body is back on Central Daylight time, but Wales is not forgotten. I told you about hiking the hills with my friend Liz and the time we spent in Pembrokeshire with the Langham leadership team, but I skipped one very important afternoon. |
AuthorLeAnne Hardy has lived in six countries on four continents. Her books come out of her cross-cultural experiences and her passion to use story to convey spiritual truths in a form that will permeate lives. Add http://www.leannehardy.net/1/feed to your RSS feed.
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