This is the front desk with your wake-up call

Written 14 years ago TODAY. I thought you'd find that interesting for Throwback Thursday.

Wake up calls come at the most unexpected times in my life, and the one this week came in the most unusual place—on the highway halfway between Crossville and Carmi.

Thursday, a family of five traveled through the area on a bicycle—one bicycle, built for four, pulling a cart carrying the youngest member of the family. The family had begun its journey April 1—in Vermont—with hopes of reaching Alaska by Aug. 1.

I caught up with the family on Illinois 1 and 14, halfway between Crossville and Carmi. There, on the side of the road, as semis flew by us, I learned a valuable life lesson.

I had forgotten to dream.

The father, Billy Romp, said the trip was the “living out of a dream.” In part, he said, they were making the trip to remind people that dreams do come true.

And then, in the next breath, without skipping a beat, he turned to me and asked “What’s your dream?”

And I said nothing.

My mind raced to think of something. Surely there was something I could say to save face.

Nothing.

In the scramble of living each day, I had given up dreams; and even sadder, I hadn’t even realized it . . . not until that moment. I finished the interview and walked to my car as the question played again and again in my mind; “What’s my dream?”

Our class buried a time capsule with our 20-year predictions. Me? I was going to marry a sailor (he had been my ‘steady’ all through school), have three children and be the first interplanetary journalist. Granted, some dreams aren’t meant to come true, but that youthful dream gave me direction in the coming years, and I know I made decisions based somewhat on those dreams.

Perhaps decisions come so hard lately because there is no dream guiding me. If I’m to move forward, I’m going to have to find my “Alaskan bike trip” and begin to live it.

And, may I ask, what’s your dream?

Just a bit farther down the road

My new job has me traveling to new places, so my friends at my old job got me a TomTom as a going away present. Only problem is, if you don't have an address, the TomTom can't get you there.

I was headed to the Lawrence County Fairgrounds, so I called the office there to get directions. I scribbled some notes and headed north. I turned west as the directions indicated when I realized my notes were a little fuzzy about just how far I was supposed to go. Surely I can't miss a fairgrounds, I thought, so I kept going. . . and going . . . and going until I thought apparently you can miss a fairgrounds, so I turned around.

I watched both sides of the road, certain I would find a fairgrounds this time, and had faith until I drove all the way back into Lawrenceville.

I turned around again. And, again I started off and went as far as I thought I needed to go and stopped. With no fairgrounds in site, I called a coworker who gave me directions. Armed with knowledge, I returned to the path until I got to the point where my coworker said "if you get to here, you've gone too far." Somehow, I had missed it again.

Late beyond repair, I stopped at a house where a man was mowing his yard, and I asked for directions.

"You have to keep going," he said. "You've stopped too soon. The fairgrounds is farther down the road."

It was then I realized that the directions from my coworker were from HER house. I was coming from the opposite direction, so what was "too far" for her was only the beginning for me.

I had to keep going.
I stopped too soon.

How often do we do that? Stop too soon. Fail to take one more step. Fail to do the one last thing that will put us where we need to be. Fail to plot our course. We misinterpret signs and take the advice of friends who aren't where we are and aren't who we are, and we miss the place where we're supposed to be.

I got back in the car and drove, and then drove more, past the point where I had stopped before and there, just a little bit farther down the road, was the fairgrounds. It was there all the time just waiting for me to find it, claim it, enjoy it.

What is waiting for you, just a bit farther down the road?

Photo credit: Tyler Ackerman, CWCHS cross country runner who understands what it means to go just a little bit farther down the road. Sorry, can't remember if this was my photo or his mother's photo, but too good not to share!

Passing on my way

When the time comes, just say "I'm passing on my way."

I had never heard death described quite like that. The radio DJ, announcing the death of a popular singer, said, the artist "passed on his way."



Passed on his way . . . how fitting a description.

"Passed on our way," as if to remind us that we began in one place, spent some time in this place, before heading  on to the next place.

We weren't just here then gone.

There was a purpose to our journey, or as Og Mandino said in The Greatest Miracle in the World, "You are not the momentary whim of a careless creator experimenting in the laboratory of life . . . you have a purpose."

We are on our way from somewhere to somewhere, and, along the way, we pass by here.

We do not "pass away," for that implies what legacy we left passes away. We do not "die." That is so final, too final.

We pass on our way, and along the journey, have the time of our lives.

For whatever reason, my "purpose" seems to be enlightening children to the potential inside of them. It's there as infants, and somehow, through all the trials of life, we begin to forget, to doubt, to stop believing. Be the spark that rekindles that hope in others. Don't hold back.

"And I leave you now, not with sadness but with satisfaction and joy that we came together and walked, arm in arm, through this brief moment of eternity. Who could ask for more?" The ragpicker in The Greatest Miracle in the World

photo credit: Judy Mae Bingman

Calling it even

"Come Friday, we're even," the man said. "That's how I look at my job."

The man had worked for years and years at his job, and though the hours were often long and the pay was not so good, he said he picked up his pay check each Friday and considered his account even.

Square.
Paid in Full.

No matter how difficult the task may have been each week, in his mind, the check he received at the end of the week covered the debt. Each week, he marked the account paid in full and moved on.

Do you?
Or, do you, like me at times, look at your compensation for a job well done and complain that it isn't enough, complain that you aren't appreciated more, complain that the task was more than expected, complain that the glory doesn't equal the effort?

To make matters worse, each week we keep carrying that balance forward, adding a little more to the "what's owed us" column.

We will never be paid what we think we're worth. We can never be appreciated to the extent we think we should. Friends will never be as loving as we think they should. Traffic will never go as fast as we think it needs to.

Peace of mind can only come when we change what we think . . . 
. . . when we get to the end of the week and mark it even.
. . . when we get to the end of the day and balance the books with our friends and family.
. . . when we realize that give and take sometimes means giving more and taking less.

And when you're okay with that, you're finally okay with everything.

photo credit: Jenny Mae Bingman - Puerto Rican Parade, Chicago 2009 during American Idol Auditions

Waiting for bad

This morning's unexpected snow reminded me of one anticipated snowstorm years ago which never came. The salt truck was parked at the rest area between Carmi and Crossville waiting ... just waiting ... waiting for bad weather which never came.

Some of us live our lives just like that, waiting for bad stuff which never comes. We worry that we could become ill; we could lose our job; we could lose our marriage.

We could, we could, we could.

But maybe, we won't. Maybe it just won't snow that day, but like the man in the salt truck, we are so focused on waiting for the bad, we fail to see the beauty happening all around us. That day turned out to be a lovely day. Every day is a lovely day for those who have learned to give worry no more time than it deserves.

I have found comfort lately trusting in "the plan." Life is tough, tougher than I can figure out at times. It's in those times, I've learned, to quit trying to steer the boat. Sometimes you are just supposed to enjoy the ride and leave the details to the One who knows the plan, the One who designed the plan.

When life just doesn't make sense, quit trying to make it have sense.

Trust that when the pieces are all fit together, a beautiful picture will emerge.

One of my favorite books is When God Winks by Squire Rushnell. I encourage you to read it. I quote from it: "Our view of life is limited. We go from day to day, looking at one puzzle piece at a time. But there is another perspective. While we are trying to make sense out of one odd-looking piece after another, we can take comfort knowing that all of the pieces do fit into a plan that could only have been created by a higher power. Only when we near the finish and begin to attain a more global perspective does the whole composition have clarity."

Photo credit: Judy Mae Bingman