Moonlight. The full, unhindered brightness of clear, star-pierced night over sere, shadow-long plains. A nighttime journey. Three souls whizzing down snaky black roads. And music. The swift lilt of hammered dulcimer, the dance of violin, and the voice of Rich Mullins crying out glory.
This gypsy life with its car treks back and forth through the plains sometimes threaten to undo me. And yet, sometimes the long miles create a hedged circle of quiet in which I am unexpectedly remade. Night drives especially seem to bear an inherent magic. Dad, Joel and I drove far into the night, through the mountain passes to make it back home. I was so dreading it, but the peace of those dark hours was like sleep to a very exhausted soul. And the moonlight, well it was like food. (The fudge sundae we snagged in Raton also helped.)
And Rich Mullins. Every time I hear him I thank God he lived. He’s one of my saints, one of the people whose music of love to God bridges the chasms of my struggle and allows me to come close to the Father again. I first heard his songs on a family roadtrip up into the southern Rockies. There is just nothing quite like driving pencil thin roads through gigantic, snow-capped mountains while singing Sing Your Praise at the top of your thirteen-year-old lungs. Since then, Rich has companioned and illuminated many hours of my gypsy wandering, hours that somehow stand out as moments of luminescent beauty when I look back on them. If you have never heard Rich Mullins, go listen. Now. Start with my favorite of his: A Liturgy, A Legacy and a Ragamuffin Band. And listen to it by mountains or moonlight if you possibly can.
So, all that to say. We are home now. Once again, I am writing away. At some point, I’m sure I’ll crash in sheer exhaustion, but for now, the words are flowing, albeit in a ramble. A snowstorm is brooding in the west. I am sipping my last thermos cup of tea before braving the cold and making it home. And now, I am bidding you a fond farewell. For the moment anyway…