I don’t even want to tell you the name of the book. The genre was a detective story about a woman investigator in the 1920’s. It met the criteria of being available on i-pad from the library and not demanding total attention to following the story during a disjointed trip. Toward the end of the novel, this statement stood out: Never judge a journey by its length. A variety of journeys tumbled into my mind. Some were planned and others unplanned. A few involved only crossing a street. A shining important one was metaphorical whose destination was a change in heart.
A spur of the moment going forth has lasting value of inestimable worth. Forty-two years ago as we left church a friend mentioned that peaches were ripe in Fredricksburg. Though making preserves is not my favorite use of peaches, somehow having them available for a hot biscuit on a winter day sounded enticing. The boys were at Boy Scout camp. Monday morning, Sarah, maybe 8, and I packed sugar, lemons, and jars, and drove to the Hill Country. We bought a bushel of ripe peaches and headed back to the family ranch near Bergheim, twining the roads through Luckenbach. We bought a Coke at the beer joint. We crossed a bridge over a creek, pulled over, and dangled our feet in cool running water. We settled in at the ranch, peeled peaches , and cooked down the sugary syrup before adding cinnamon and lemon juice to taste. We ate supper on the front porch still smelling the flavored sweetness heavy in the air. In coming darkness ,we walked through the gate and up to the road to look for deer. Tuesday morning we packed our efforts carefully and were in Houston by noon.
In memory, this time was never marred by “Are we there yet?” “How much farther?”“Do we really need to go?” How do you rank the trips of your life? Was the value weighed by the length? Two weeks with children may have been given worth by motels with swimming pools. A neighborhood three block walk for ice cream may even be ahead of a trip to England. Consider the stress in a walk from a waiting room to a doctor’s office and then having it relieved by good news.
My map was redrawn at this point. I took a break in writing to go to church, Palm Sunday. Our pastor wrote in the church blog of Pontius Pilate’s ceremonial journey that day from Caesarea Maritime to Jerusalem to show off Roman power and prevent a riot if necessary. That parade meant nothing to me. Yet that same day Jesus arrived in Jerusalem to celebrate a Jewish feast and hopefully avoid attempts on his life. How long did it take to wind through the streets of Jerusalem surrounded by affirming throngs calling, “Hosanna!” The length of that journey continues to this day and its value in my life cannot be measured.
“You see that you can do nothing; look, the whole world has gone after him.”
Let Me Tell Ya 