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Authors: Cynthia Ruchti
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Frank seems absorbed in something along the far
wall of the garage. “Both of his telescoping fishing nets are still here. What was my boy thinking?”
As we gather our own needs from the more than ample
supply of fishing tackle left to us, some emotion between anger and fear returns and churns within me.
You didn’t intend on fishing at all, did you, Greg? You lied to me.
To your father. To the boys. Coward! Why couldn’t you tell me to my face that you were leaving me?
I’ll have to forgive him for that. He could accuse me of plot-
ting my departure with the same level of cowardice.
61
W hen Frank said, “We’ll get an early start in the morning,” I didn’t know he considered anything after midnight morning. The garage door is open. As I stare into the comfortless night, a rogue breeze tickles a handful of leaves in the driveway. They skate out of the shadows into the garage to escape its teasing. I don’t dare look too far past the Blazer parked just outside the doorway. If a crowd of onlookers is forming, I don’t want to know. This process is private. Personal.
Silence accompanies us as we pack Frank’s Blazer. We should talk about the trip. Plan. Strategize. All the words are locked in some internal dungeon of pain. Greg, what have you done?
We have a long trip ahead of us with little elbow room for our bodies or our minds. We secured everything we could under the overturned canoes now lashed to the top of the canoe carrier on the Blazer roof. Fishing nets, life vests, canoe paddles, and a few other items are tucked up, strapped in, and ready to go. The final tie-down of the canoes must wait until we close the back end of the vehicle for the last time, which won’t happen until we’ve shoehorned in the rest of our equipment.
6
62
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
My fellow travelers leave companions behind. Pauline and
Brent will hold down the fort while their mates are gone. Frank and Jen will be missed. Other than a message on the boys’ voice mail services, I have no contacts to make.
Brent’s a gem. I know he must worry about letting Jen take
off like this. She’s as inexperienced as I am in these things. But he trusts her.
What he actually said was that he trusts the Lord in her.
Brent promised to pick up my mail and field any can’t-wait
phone calls. I am free to leave home and no one will notice. Or care. Not this time.
Before that thought’s reverberation dies, the phone rings.
Pastor heard from the church secretary, who heard from one of our neighbors, that lights are on at our house. At this hour. I wonder if Mrs. Hensley mentioned the canoes.
Assured there is no emergency other than the one he already
knows about, Pastor asks how I’m holding up and tells me the elder board is planning another prayer vigil. Can I help it if I’m distracted? Every minute spent celebrating the wonder of “the family of God” is another minute Greg is in trouble.
“Did I call at a bad time? It’s three in the morning. Of course
it’s a bad time.”
“What? No. Well, yes. We’re . . . um, Greg’s dad and Jen
and I are . . . we’re packing to head north. We hope to retrace Greg’s trip.”
No immediate answer. He’s probably searching his brain for
a way to tell me God loves the mentally ill. “Libby?”
“Yes?” I feign innocence, though I know his next words are
bound to be an exhortation of biblical proportions.
“If that’s what you believe the Lord is calling you to do, then
you can be confident He’ll go ahead of you.”
63
They Almost Always Come Home
Those words would comfort me if I’d thought to ask Him first.
********
It’s almost time to take our final bathroom breaks prior to buckling ourselves into the Blazer when Pastor jogs up the driveway and into the garage. How did he get here so fast? “Looks like you’re all set,” he says, eyeing the overloaded gypsy wagon for the outdoorsman. And women. “It’ll have to do,” Frank says.
Pastor and Frank have
wall of the garage. “Both of his telescoping fishing nets are still here. What was my boy thinking?”
As we gather our own needs from the more than ample
supply of fishing tackle left to us, some emotion between anger and fear returns and churns within me.
You didn’t intend on fishing at all, did you, Greg? You lied to me.
To your father. To the boys. Coward! Why couldn’t you tell me to my face that you were leaving me?
I’ll have to forgive him for that. He could accuse me of plot-
ting my departure with the same level of cowardice.
61
W hen Frank said, “We’ll get an early start in the morning,” I didn’t know he considered anything after midnight morning. The garage door is open. As I stare into the comfortless night, a rogue breeze tickles a handful of leaves in the driveway. They skate out of the shadows into the garage to escape its teasing. I don’t dare look too far past the Blazer parked just outside the doorway. If a crowd of onlookers is forming, I don’t want to know. This process is private. Personal.
Silence accompanies us as we pack Frank’s Blazer. We should talk about the trip. Plan. Strategize. All the words are locked in some internal dungeon of pain. Greg, what have you done?
We have a long trip ahead of us with little elbow room for our bodies or our minds. We secured everything we could under the overturned canoes now lashed to the top of the canoe carrier on the Blazer roof. Fishing nets, life vests, canoe paddles, and a few other items are tucked up, strapped in, and ready to go. The final tie-down of the canoes must wait until we close the back end of the vehicle for the last time, which won’t happen until we’ve shoehorned in the rest of our equipment.
6
62
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
My fellow travelers leave companions behind. Pauline and
Brent will hold down the fort while their mates are gone. Frank and Jen will be missed. Other than a message on the boys’ voice mail services, I have no contacts to make.
Brent’s a gem. I know he must worry about letting Jen take
off like this. She’s as inexperienced as I am in these things. But he trusts her.
What he actually said was that he trusts the Lord in her.
Brent promised to pick up my mail and field any can’t-wait
phone calls. I am free to leave home and no one will notice. Or care. Not this time.
Before that thought’s reverberation dies, the phone rings.
Pastor heard from the church secretary, who heard from one of our neighbors, that lights are on at our house. At this hour. I wonder if Mrs. Hensley mentioned the canoes.
Assured there is no emergency other than the one he already
knows about, Pastor asks how I’m holding up and tells me the elder board is planning another prayer vigil. Can I help it if I’m distracted? Every minute spent celebrating the wonder of “the family of God” is another minute Greg is in trouble.
“Did I call at a bad time? It’s three in the morning. Of course
it’s a bad time.”
“What? No. Well, yes. We’re . . . um, Greg’s dad and Jen
and I are . . . we’re packing to head north. We hope to retrace Greg’s trip.”
No immediate answer. He’s probably searching his brain for
a way to tell me God loves the mentally ill. “Libby?”
“Yes?” I feign innocence, though I know his next words are
bound to be an exhortation of biblical proportions.
“If that’s what you believe the Lord is calling you to do, then
you can be confident He’ll go ahead of you.”
63
They Almost Always Come Home
Those words would comfort me if I’d thought to ask Him first.
********
It’s almost time to take our final bathroom breaks prior to buckling ourselves into the Blazer when Pastor jogs up the driveway and into the garage. How did he get here so fast? “Looks like you’re all set,” he says, eyeing the overloaded gypsy wagon for the outdoorsman. And women. “It’ll have to do,” Frank says.
Pastor and Frank have
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