Things start falling apart at certain stages of life, have you noticed? Laughter, too.
“Puddleglum,” I tell the Preacher sometimes, when he laughs, big and deep. “You need to laugh more. It suits you.” But life ruts, schedules and deadlines interfere with mirth, so one day we stepped out. Got in the car, pointed it southwest, and started rolling.
On road trips, rather than listen to the stereo, we sometimes read long sections of scripture. Aloud. Land and wind rushing past, we absorb it; let God freshen our staleness. That’s often the best part of a road trip, but that trip had lots of good parts.
We drove to a city two hours southwest. Not to wait for a doctor, stand at a pulpit, or take notes at a seminar. Just to be—with each other. Silly. A little young again. We strolled in a lakeshore park, shopped (very) briefly and indulged in the free pre-dinner biscuits at Red Lobster. Quite simply, we enjoyed a very simple day.
We laughed, too. Three times, at three signs. “Where are we going, and what’s that handbasket for?” the first read. “Incontinence line. Please hold,” sign two said, and the third, posted at a car lot, read, “Mothers are special, buy one today.”
“Come ye apart,” Jesus told his disciples. They had no car, but he and his followers hit the road together and the world has never been the same. I suspect it had something to do with road trips.