The Flog – The Fabry Log

There’s something about driving a long distance alone that really helps me relax and get ready for the next thing, whatever that is. I have a feeling there are some good and bad things ahead for our family and I’m trying to take them as they come.

I left on Wednesday afternoon at 2:30 PM and drove straight through from Tucson to Colorado Springs. I arrived there at 4:30 AM (one hour time difference) and slept in the car for a couple of hours. Then it was off to Home Depot to get the chemical splash suit, gloves, mask, duct tape, and bins I needed. I was on a search for missing documents/pictures, etc., from our old house.

I got inside easily and began to retrieve the car titles, wills, etc. In case you’re new to our story, we had a toxic mold exposure that we remediated twice and then abandoned the home in October of 2008. In the entryway was a lunchbox still out with an unopened Doritos bag and peanut butter crackers. It was cold and quiet in the house, but I was struck by how much life was still there, even though there was no sign of humanity.

In the past I’ve been overcome by the sense of loss of our pets and all that we had done to make that house a home. This time I felt a sense of ache for the children. Their beds made or unmade, their dressers filled with clothes they’ll never wear again, closets with DVDs of favorite movies they’ll never see. Ryan’s room was particularly hard to walk through. He had so many drums and posters on the wall of New York, his dream. Diaries left untouched where they lay.

I spent 3 hours gathering baby books and video tapes and car titles and social security cards and double bagging them outside in the heavy plastic bags contractors use. I stuffed them in Rubbermaid boxes and taped it all up.

As soon as I was finished I drove to Focus on the Family, did the show with the help of Andrew Stevens and Paul Veres, two guys who have stood with us through this whole ordeal. Don’t know where I would be without those guys and everyone who has prayed for us at Focus. I saw John Fuller and he stopped and prayed with me.

I drove to the bookstore, bought an audio book, and got back on the road again and drove the 13 hours back to Tucson. To some that sounds like a really dumb thing to do, especially since it snowed in Sante Fe and sleeted in Albuquerque. But I loved it. Life is like this long road you drive and until you consciously get in and begin driving toward some destination, I think you just go through the motions. I thought a lot during the drive, watched the scenery pass, thought some more about why God was bringing us on this long journey.

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I played one song over and over on the trip and it may help you as well. It’s called “Like A Lake” and it’s on the new album by Sara Groves. The words are incredible. Right where I am. But the music is even better. There’s something about the way that song was played/produced that hits me square in the heart. I hope you get a chance to play it a time or two hundred like I did.

Sara’s song says, “Everything in me is tightening, curling in around this ache, I am fighting to stay open.”

Keep up the fight. Through whatever you’re going through.

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In New Mexico, on my way North, I stopped at a Walmart to find the audio book I wanted, to no success. As I walked out, anonymous and oblivious to everyone, feeling alone, a speck in the cosmos, and so many miles and hours ahead, a lot of hurt behind, I passed two men talking. One wore a cowboy hat, the other one walked with a limp. These old boys had known each other for years, it seemed. They had that easy laughter that comes with friendship and I envied them. To have good friends close. Something familiar. When I passed they shook hands and the one with the limp moved toward his car. For some reason our paths crossed. He could have just kept his head down and walked to the car, but for some reason he looked up.

“And how are you doing today?” he said with a big smile. He said it to me.

I looked him in the eye. There was no way he could know all that was sifting through my brain, the things ahead and behind. He paused before he got to the car and kept looking, waiting for me to answer, like it mattered.

“I’m doing pretty good,” I finally said.

“That's good,” he said. “You have a good night now.”

I moved to the car with a little lighter step. Just something simple like a smile and a question let me know I'm not alone, though it feels that way. I am doing “pretty good.” Through the fight and the struggle and all the questions of where to begin to move forward, I'm pretty good. And I hope you are, too.