TRAVELING EAST, GOING HOME

It was almost dusk. The speeding tires against hard asphalt blocked any sound that might have been heard. It erased all whispered secrets and drowned out any quiet sounds of crying from lonely hearts. Occasionally soft ripples of laugher was carried over the sound of the tires and made its way to my ears. I placed my head against the cold glass of the window and curled up a little tighter under my coat. This Greyhound bus had been my home for the past three days - day three of a five day trip. I was going home. Christmas was just four days away and I looked forward to the comfort of my own bed and the warmth of my family. When I closed my eyes, I could imagine their smiling faces and warm embraces welcoming me home.

I had never been this far West before. Previously I had traveled no further west than Texas. Beyond the sprawling, bustling cities of the east and the midwest, I had crossed the vast windy plains of Nebraska with its tall swaying grasses that seemed to go on forever; and the open cattle ranges of Wyoming before being greeted by the splendid snow capped mountain ranges in Utah.

I had returned from busing all over Europe in August and was anxious for another trip before accepting the responsibilities of a new graduate from high school and starting a job with the Federal Bureau of Investigation (the FBI) in Washington D.C. A job already secured and which was scheduled to begin in February. Not quite being ready to leave the close proximity of home before moving to a distant state, I had decided to live in an apartment and work for a year before going on to college. This trip was going to be my last great hurrah for a while. I had left home before Thanksgiving to visit friends and check out the Brigham Young University campus - my college of choice.

It had been an amazing trip! Full of fun, new experiences, new friendships. After staying in the dorms on campus for two days, I was invited to stay with the family of the missionary that had baptized me. I had never visited a home so warm and welcoming. Every morning began and every evening ended with family prayer. Among many other things they took me snow skiing - another first - and Mrs. Smart taught me how to bake bread. I was made to feel like one of the family but when they ask if I could stay for Christmas which was a week away, I had to tearfully say no. I had never missed a Christmas at home and it was time for me to return.

It was a long trip from Utah to Maryland. There were enough seats on the bus so no one had to share a seat if they didn't want to. However, when we stopped for breaks or meals, everyone was friendly and helpful. In an odd and slightly dyfunctional way, those of us that traveled together for several days began to feel like a little family. I liked, and was comfortable with, our little bus group. When we did talk, it was interesting to hear all the different stories of where they came from, where they going, and why.

Everyone had their own story - a soldier that left home as a child and returned as a man was going home to his family for the holiday and away from the horrors of war in Vietnam; a new Mormon convert, carrying her television set on her lap, was leaving behind her old life and in search of a new, better one in Salt Lake City where she would not have to defend her beliefs and where she knew she would be welcomed with open hearts and open arms; an immigrant with broken English was going to meet family-eager to find a better life in a new country. Each leaving something behind and looking forward to the future and new beginnings. One could not help but feel inspired by such faith in the promise of a new future. I, too, had faith that my future would be as big and as wonderful as theirs. It never entered my mind that there might be disappointments in their lives and in my own.

All of my evenings were spent the same way. I looked out the window until I got sleepy and was then lulled into a deep sleep by the serenade of singing tires against the hard road. My purse had become my pillow against the cold of the glass.

I enjoyed looking out the window. As evening fell, Christmas lights were turned on and curtains were left open. Most of the houses sat a distance back from the road - farmhouses mostly. Some of the houses had probably been there since the road running in front of their property was a dirt road. This was a time when two-lane highways cut across the landscape of America instead of the sterile freeways of today. A time when life was slower and the people seemed a little warmer and more friendly.

As we sped past I was enchanted by the lights which lined the rooftops and the outline of brightly lit Christmas trees in the front windows. The houses were too far away to see anything clearly but it made me wonder who lived there. What was their story? Were they happy? Had laughing children made this their home. Had they run laughing up an down the stairs and through the halls? Had the wife/mother stood in the kitchen preparing dinner, waiting for her husband to come home and sit down to a hearty meal. Or maybe he was just finishing up his farming chores. Perhaps the children were all grown and now the house was quiet with just Mom and Pop there. Maybe there was just a widow or widower living alone - hopefully happy and content with their life and their memories; and enough to do so their days were full and rewarding.

Or had it been a sad house? An abusive demanding parent. Or could a child have died leaving an empty hole in the parents' hearts. I preferred to think of it as a house full of love like my own home in Maryland.

Had the family gathered on the porch in the evening during the summer to escape the heat of the house - until mosquitoes or gnats had driven them inside again? Did they sit out there telling stories and sharing memories? How many different families had lived in this house? or had there been only one family that had passed it down through the generations from one family member to the next?

So many stories - individual and shared - in the houses we sped past and with my travel companions. And I had my own story. So much had happened since I graduated. A trip to Europe, a trip across the United States. What would the future hold? I had no idea but I thought it would be glorious - full of adventures, new experiences, and new people just waiting to become part of my life. And somewhere out there there was a man that would become my forever love, my husband. We'd have a house full of children and we'd live happily ever after.

For a young girl with her life ahead of her and in her Pollyanna way of thinking, there would be no unhappiness and no sorrow. There was no room for sadness in her perfect little world. No divorce, no heartbreaking loss of a child, no struggles, no worries. She had a lot of growing up to do and a lot of knowledge and wisdom to acquire.

Life, as they say, is our greatest teacher and life's lessons the most lasting. It would be a good life. Not a perfect life but a good life. It would be filled with learning experiences. It would have its ups an downs; it would be marred with fear, uncertainty, disappointments, unfulfilled dreams, sadness - overwhelming sadness, hurt, and pain; and it would be enriched with great happiness and good fortune, and lots of love. She would be blessed with beautiful, loving children and grandchildren; a wonderful, trustworthy, loyal, and devoted husband. She would have her God and her faith to sustain her through the good times and the bad times. And she would learn that while she might be lonely, she would never be alone. The lines of communication with Heaven are always open - 24,7 and you never get a recording or a busy signal.

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When Christian died, I turned away from communicating with God. Not because I blamed Him for Christian's death because I didn't. For some reason unknown to me then and now, I felt a great separation from God. This was the first time in my life I had ever felt that way. I know in time the feeling will pass but even today, eighteen months later, I still do not feel the closeness I once did. In time, as in most things I have discovered on this journey, the answer will be revealed to me when God decides the time is right. While I may not feel as close to Him as I once did, I still have absolute faith. When an idea comes to me that is bigger than anything I could have come up with on my own - an epiphany if you will - or an answer to a burning question arrives out of the blue when I least expect it, I know where it comes from. While I may not be talking, God still is. And His patience with this distant child is infinite.