Waging Conversations in the Wilderness

the gift of forty hours on the road

The back road stretches out before us as the edge of the midday sun glints through our windshield. I look back and check on the kids, they are in Phase 3 of our road trip protocol. They are loving every minute of being on their devices, absorbed in their favorite shows. I slide my phone into the front pocket of my travel bag, it is done from its Phase 1 stage: listen to family audiobooks. I reach around me to clear up the few snack bags remaining from Phase 2. Finally, I settle back in the passenger seat and close my eyes. We have another six out of nine and a half hours to go to make it to my parents. Once we stop again to relieve our bladders and stretch our legs, the Phases will begin again.

I feel the weight of the long week of preparation start to ease from my mind. I think a small prayer over us, may we be safe on our journey across America. May the deer stay on their side of the road. May the semi-trucks and other cars pass with care. May we speak to one another with kindness even as our bodies crunch down in our seats from the hours of sitting that await us.

The hum of the car slowly rocks me and I allow myself to slip into a cat nap. Just as I dive beneath the first sweet layer of slumber Ryan nudges me with his elbow, and I crack one eye open. “What?” I ask, trying to hold onto this sleepy feeling.

“You’re not going to keep my company?” He asks and I shift to look at him.

“Uh– you want me to?” I cross my arms and peer closely at his face. He lifts and sips his energy drink, focused on the road. 

“I do.”

“Hmmm,” I bite my lip, sigh, and press my feet into the floorboards. When we road trip, Ryan steers our car over the miles, I organize the kid entertainment, snack care, family audiobooks, and directions. Since I’ve finished with all of these tasks, I thought I could clock out for a bit. He sets the drink in the cupholder and pats my leg before returning his hand to the wheel. 

“I thought maybe we could just talk for a bit?”

I stretch my arms out, shake my head, and roll my shoulders. “Okay,” I say, and I wait. He’s silent, watching the road and the space between us sharpens my next question. “About what?”

He shrugs and looks at me, and he grins. “Things.” I huff back at him and watch the road for a bit. My gaze and demeanor soften as I watch it, my favorite kind of road, a country one. It meanders along farm fields and herds of cattle. Little houses dot the land, and everything feels stretched and slow here. I breathe in and study his face for a moment.

He’s freshly shaven, from his morning report into work. I imagine how in a few days his stubble will come in, and that sight is so rare I’ve come to love it. We get to leave the Marine Corps cammies at home for the next 15 days. I ask him about his morning in the office, and he tells me a few “things.” We’re quiet again for a while, but I work to think of a few more points to touch on. It is strange, to have this concentrated time to talk together. It’s so easy to slip into necessities at home. Get kids where they need to go. Do our work. Check-in before we prep for the next day. Peck one another on the cheek before bed. Get up and repeat.

I don’t remember what I said that unlocks what he truly needs to share, but somewhere in our next hour of conversation, I find myself listening more than prompting. We circle retirement, and the questions that have both excited and haunted us are back, filling the tight space of the car. What are we doing? What do we dream about next? What do we want to do, weighed in tandem with what we know the kids need? 

In a short two months from now, Ryan will reach 20 years of active military service. While he’s not getting out right away, we’re closer than we’ve ever been. I stare out the window as he talks, and the fields of Texas transition to the tall, deep forest of Arkansas. Where there was once easy light hitting the land, now it is fragmented by foliage. I can’t see through it. I shift in my seat again and reach to hold his free hand as he continues to talk through his thoughts.

We’re in the wilderness of conversations not wagered yet. 

We’re in the thick place where we have to step through the tangled feelings of curiosity and fear, strategy and struggle, hope and hardship. The trees that line the road spread across the mountains before us, and as the car climbs the last peak to my parent’s home, we pause our head-to-head for the next open road.

The trip greets us with more long stints, a ten-hour day takes us to Ohio. After a week of vacation there, we rolled along six more hours to Kentucky. Then there is the sixteen-hour surge that ushers us back to Texas life. On each drive, we lead the kids through the expected family phases: audiobook, game, snack, and show. Once they slip on their headphones, Ryan and I pick up our team listen (hello Fairy Tale by Stephen King), and after we indulge in that story for a bit, we return to discussing ours.

It gets easier, on the rumbling highway, to wind in and out of tricky topics. And I’m thankful for it. His face stubble shapes into a light beard, and I graze the texture with my fingertips as we talk, and we talk, and we talk. We bat around crazy ideas. What about a trip overseas to celebrate the end? I look up cruise dates and flights. Or what if we bought a camper? We talk about the merits and pitfalls of a Class C. What about a dog? We cringe and laugh about all that’s undecided and unknown. Because beneath it all, the possibility of what we can do once done with active service is beginning to shine through. 

When we bump into the driveway back home, we have been in the car for a total summer trip of forty-plus road hours. We unload and sigh at the chores to come and the family routine we need to re-establish, but Ryan pauses to sweep me into a deep hug and kiss. I watch him carry luggage into the house, and I can already feel his soon-to-be smooth face brushing against mine. I mourn the presence of his vacation beard. But as we stretch our bodies and say farewell to the winding roads, my prayer is different. 

May we keep finding each other to talk. May we stay open to one another’s ideas. May we be brave enough to go forward, not knowing, but daring to discover. 

a note to you, reader:

I smiled at my keyboard as I typed my way through our trip. This piece is in response to the July 2024 Exhale Creativity Blog Hop. The prompt? Manna. While I thought about the food supplied to the Israelites in the desert, my focus turned specifically to how long the manna was provided—forty years of miraculous bread.

When I calculated our total driving time for this summer’s road trip, I gasped. Between Texas to Arkansas, then to Ohio, onward to Kentucky, and looping back to Texas, we clocked right at forty hours. Forty hours of miraculous time on the road to reconnect and talk.

I always wonder when coincidences like this happen, are they chance, or are they divine? Or are they both, and it is the artist, the writer, the one open-hearted and willing to maintain wonder, who pauses to notice?

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Manna."

Photo by David Herron on Unsplash