Pray for Adventure
Stories of travel adventure, life changing pilgrimages, solo female traveler tips, romance, airport debacles, expeditions to find thy true self, suitcase misadventures, and more...
Florida Strong: The Aftermath of Hurricane Ian
In the hours leading up to Hurricane Ian as well as throughout days of aftermath, I’ve received a much-appreciated inundation of concerned messages. “Are you okay? How are you doing? What’s it like down there now?”
Although our city survived relatively unscathed, seemingly divinely protected, the storm completely obliterated much of southwest Florida. Still unsure why our town evaded much of the destruction, my emotionally strained thoughts still resemble some misshapen form of survivor’s guilt as I continue to receive messages from friends who lost everything. Only God holds those answers, maybe even unanswerable until Heaven. I don’t know. But I do know it puts our community in a position to help others recover.
I realize many people currently face a long road ahead, filled with rebuilding, and temporary drastic lifestyle changes. To personally answer, “What was it like? How did you fare?” Well, for a first-timer weathering a Category 4, this storm affected us all to varying degrees.
It’s the sick feeling inside while preparing to evacuate. Deciding which family heirlooms to pack, swiping family photos off shelves, frantically packing nonperishable food, and lugging water jugs down the stairs.
It’s deciding which possessions truly matter, struggling to hear His reassuring voice, “Your home will be fine,” and clinging to pure raw faith as if your next breath depended on it.
Its questioning the game plan, then questioning it again. Should we shelter in place? Are the airports already shut down? Do we drive inland?
It’s the uneasy queasiness inside from watching newscasters speak of the brooding squall, menacingly gaining momentum and breadth while unpredictably changing directions. Will it hit us? Go north? South?
It’s the buildup of anticipation, feeling like a little child about to go to the doctor for painful shots.
Its wondering if the hurricane demolished our boat club, and whether that job still exists afterwards. Will I need to look for new work?
It’s the storm. Wind thundering like a freight train, torrential rain cascading down windows, palm trees with their fronds whipping mercilessly in the fury of it all.
It’s the aftermath. Stoplights hanging precariously, businesses boarded up, neighbors emerging bewildered, assessing fallen trees, limbs, and torn structures.
Its the collective effort of checking on each other, helping one another in the most large-scale collaborative efforts I’ve ever witnessed.
Its the relief. Walking slowly across our damp wooden docks at the marina, speechless. Everything intact. Protected. Preserved. How? I can’t even find words to pray. Tears effortlessly stream down.
Its carefully opening the front door, peeking inside, and breathlessly taking stock of minimal damage, scurrying about as if seeing my home for the first time with a realtor.
It’s shoulders to lean on, shoulders to cry on, voices of familiar friends over the phone, and concerned family members willing to just sit and listen.
It’s cleanup, the therapeutic hard work as we give each vessel at our marina individualized care, attending to its scratches and debris as if tending to wounded hearts during prayer.
It’s praising Him for His goodness and protection, knowing no matter what the aftermath, I’d still be thanking Him, searching for some good in it.
And so, to answer many concerned messages, this hopefully illustrates a glimmer of what touched all our lives to varying degrees down here. And we will recover. We are strong. We are resilient. We will rebuild. We will help each other. And as the many billboard signs read right now, we are Florida strong.
The Florida I Know
Like a painter’s palette, it’s the wondrous bursts of color bathing flower petals in sensual shades,
igniting a craving for more,
yet quenching a thirst for rich pigmentation never found in manmade color swatches
Rain swathing my skin so desperately dry, drinking in droplets,
while sloshing through warm puddles pooling on pavement,
just moments ago seared by the sun
The noise of sailboat halyards clattering in summer winds against their metal masts,
ropes and lines signaling their warning bells of approaching thunderheads building in the east
Sea foam rushing in, frothing, subsiding,
thousands of bubbles delicate as lace catching the sun in brief fragments of time,
then dissipating like the sound of a thousand tiny glass beads falling
Pressing my feet deep into sugary sand after arduous long days,
my weary body regaining strength from warmth of these shores,
offering restoration with every step
Gardenias white as wedding dresses,
extravagantly displaying their blooms with abundance like snowflakes,
no two alike,
yet their luxurious sweet scent alluring my longing for Parisian perfume
It’s first glimpses of morning color, quietly seeping onto the horizon,
awakening my worn soul like sipping coffee during wee hours,
pale peaches,
oranges,
pinks dramatically bursting forth
Palm leaf shadows, shade, and coconut rum,
the sun caressing each green frond gently as a lover exploring each inch of skin,
its branches sighing with relief, rustling, waving in hot breaths of wind
Luscious abundant rain showers, nurturing my skin back to life,
soaking through, saturating,
welcoming my presence beneath skies above,
with the fragrance of wet dock wood rising from beneath
It’s the play of crisp white sunlight in the swimming pool,
light tossing and squiggling like a child’s drawing,
dancing to an aqua colored waltz with every movement
Beads of rain adorning brackish waters like jewels and rings,
circular ripples flitting from each droplet,
“Hush,” it says to my racing mind
This is the Florida I know, the restoration of threadbare heartstrings,
renewed hopes,
its sticky healing balm reviving an aching soul,
breathing life,
to make all things new again,
Drink in deep.
Seeking Freedom
“In my life right now, I feel like its constricting me. Like asthma, a feeling I know all too well…I am suffocating here. Never thought I’d say that about Colorado.” March of 2021 marks one year of mandates, masks, and restrictions, and I pound on my computer’s keyboard during a journaling rant. “I need air…And I need it quick. That’s why I’m going to Florida…I’m desperate for normal. For breath. Let me breathe.”
After four blissful April days of beachcombing, tanning my pasty winter skin in a seemingly perpetual state of college spring break, relishing in the abundance of American flags, sailing pristine seas, and salsa dancing into wee morning hours with some local Cubans, I know. My next chapter awaits in Florida. I question whether I possess the inner strength to take such a risk.
Shortly after my return from vacation, I begin six months of adamant prayer, fervent research, and countless hours agonizing over the decision with friends who recently underwent similar situations. I beg God for signs, and although He consistently tries to get the point across, a dream comes to me in the recesses of the night, pressing its way into my daily thoughts afterwards, permeating my monotonous routines like a mysterious but familiar scent in the air that you can’t quite place. In this brief but poignant dream, His answer bluntly surges forth:
“You’re waiting on God to move. But in reality, He is waiting on you to move.” That’s it? That’s my sign? Can I have another sign? Just to be sure?!
Although not the way I anticipate, He sends more direction. Doors began shutting in every arena, like a house full of guests at Christmastime who filter upstairs to bed, one by one, and silence quiet as winter’s first snow descends. Projects roll up like completed scrolls, my career shifts, and my inner creative landscape resembles something along a desolate, desert highway on a July day in Utah. Circumstances shift politically, financially, emotionally, relationally, socially, and spiritually to name a few.
Although Fort Collins provided a very privileged, blessed, full life…Refusing to begin a new chapter appointed by God results in stagnation. Familiarity. A little too much comfort. Perhaps even boredom, contempt, stifled creativity, and out-of-sync timing, stunted like a rootbound plant. I cling to a few precious shreds of “reasons to stay,” well-acquainted with the security of my job, guarantees of routine, and dependability of my lifestyle.
Rick Renner describes this transition in his book, The Point of No Return, “The truth is, we find out just how serious we really are about fulfilling God’s call on our life when we have to give up some things…What do you say to Him when He tells you to leave behind job security, health insurance, and annual pay increases?” He further explains, “Whenever we are misplaced in what we are doing, we will experience frustration, heartache, disappointment, failure, and even depression. We’ll always be wondering, ‘Why am I so unhappy and unfulfilled?’”
Exhausted from resisting His call, within a twenty-four hour period, I say yes. I accept a job at a prestigious boat club along the Gulf Coast. I email my supervisor to resign from my healthcare position of sixteen years. I reserve temporary housing. I begin sorting out details for my Colorado home. I say yes. To God. To my dream. The call. A future. Creativity. Freedom. Adventure. Relationships. His plan. His purpose. A chance to thrive. A new job. Joy. Wealth. Prosperity. I determine to transform the glass ceiling I currently pound upon into the floor I would stand upon. I say yes to a life of faith, rather than dependence upon the comfort of my current situation.
Waves of nausea and a terrified uneasiness churn wildly, as tearful goodbyes ensue throughout the following chaotic days filled with boxes, packing tape, incessant phone calls, paperwork, flights, and leaky faucets. During workouts, I keep pace to a playlist chocked full of techno music, momentarily offering slight relief:
“Put a glass box around her,
And she’ll break the glass.
If you try to cage her in,
She’ll light the match.
…Its in her blood.
She’ll turn every chain
Into dust
Into dust…”
- Into Dust by Paris Blohm, Elle Vee
Three weeks later, I blaze down the highway with my SUV packed to the brim, wind whistling through bike racks, Kansas rain outdoing the windshield wipers, and a narrow tunnel of visibility out my back window- heading for a city I technically never visited, where I know no one.
I begin my new life. Designed by hand, purposefully created, and chosen, rather than circling like a dog chasing its tail, stuck in circumstances by default. I launch into the maritime industry, beginning work at a local boat club. I explore local churches, jazz clubs, salsa venues, restaurants, museums, and begin forming new God-given friendships, while approaching other new acquaintances with caution.
My new city deeply engraves a new level of street smarts into the core of my being, reveals matters of the heart still requiring His healing touch, and painfully forges new heights of trust in His provision. Old wounds tied to my situation in Colorado begin to heal. I feel my soul blooming again, coming alive again. Pursuing the arts. Going out again. Living my life. Breathing. Thriving. Growing. Mending. Moving forward. Living in the free state of Florida, unchained from mandates and lockdowns, at last I live again.
Two months on the other side of such a momentous undertaking, a few thoughts come to mind on courageously conquering new chapters dauntingly looming ahead.
- Things fell into place once I began moving forward: Finances remained blocked until I began taking steps ahead. A new job didn’t fall into my lap- I began applying to positions that looked fun. Manpower and resources began appearing once I started taking charge of the decision to change my situation. Nothing moved until I moved.
- Its supposed to be (sometimes extremely) uncomfortable: That’s the point. That’s where growth occurs, stagnation ends, and adventure begins! If a gym trainer consistently assigns easy workouts, we never build muscle!
- There will be “days:” Days spent missing old landscapes, friends, and family. Days when nothing seems to come together, despite everything falling into place under His hand. Glitches, snags, frustrations, a longing for something familiar, or even wishfully thinking of “going back” because it feels easier.
- Some people just don’t get it: Refuse to hand another person the power to determine your God-given destiny. We answer to Him, rather than those who lack an understanding of our dreams, or those who feel bothered by our upward movement.
- In risk, lies reward: When we step out and honor the vision He’s asking us to pursue, tremendous reward awaits. As C.S. Lewis describes, “There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind.” When moving forward with Him, we trade upwards, exchanging past thresholds for something even greater. Attempting to stay put in spite of His beckoning call is like trying to use yesterday’s already burnt fuel in a wood stove for today.
While packing up my Colorado home, a scribbly green sticky note fluttered from pages of a book, “The Dream Giver.” It read, “Stepping through fear is a small price tag for a big dream.” Wherever you desire to step out, to quote Amanda Francis in her book, “Rich As F*ck,” I encourage you “To break the mold, defy the odds, give a middle finger to the doubt that lives inside of you, and design your f***ing life.”
Seven months ago, I first heard the song “Love My Life” by Robbie Williams. I felt heartsick over how far my current situation dwelt from embodying the words. Although in this world we experience heartache, loss, and struggle, I encourage you to pursue your dreams, and design a life you love, that makes you come alive. I will leave you with these lyrics:
I cannot promise there won’t be sadness
I wish I could take it from you
But you’ll find the courage to face the madness
And sing it because its true
I love my life
I am powerful
I am beautiful
I am free
I love my life
I am wonderful
I am magical
I am me
I love my life.
- "Love My Life" by Robbie Williams
Thank you to all who made this move possible. They say it takes a village to raise a child, but I'm convinced it also takes a village to help a person move. For all the support, help, and inspiration- I could not have done it without the collaborative efforts of all those who believed in my dreams almost as much, if not more, than I did. You helped me set sail. Love, Hannah
Blakesburg, Iowa Antique Airshow 2020
When life gives you lemons, (or Iowa gives you corn), create a new recipe?!
I arrived on Friday afternoon via commercial jet, anticipating "rollercoaster-hands-in-the-air" nonstop levels of spectacular, earth-shattering fun the following day, only to discover a painfully baffling miscommunication. My whole group planned to fly back Saturday morning, rather than Sunday!
So, during precious hours remaining on Friday, we fly in silky smooth air, taking off on a grass airstrip, nostalgia stirring inside for childhood flying days with Grandpappy in his PT19 open cockpit on the farm. We raid the cooler while sitting under an airplane wing in lawn chairs, buttery thick Midwest evening sun draping across each tree branch, lining each leaf with hazy tangerine light. Peace. As thick as the air. Cicadas buzz their way through the evening, interrupting our conversations as we skip dinner, choosing instead to embrace camaraderie of friends only seen once a year.
Stars shimmer, poking though black one by one, nearly drowned by the moon’s brightness. “Isn’t this magical?” My friend remarks, stopping to take it all in. Right here, right now, these few hours are worth every penny.
I find myself alone Saturday after my buddies fly out early, initially not very thrilled about it, despite their help with establishing several new connections. Knowing God never leaves me stranded, once again I throw my trust in His ability to come through, searching for Him in the midst. And He never fails.
I serendipitously meet an older gentleman who flies for United, owns the sailboat I dream of owning one day, and whose wife graciously brings me a surprise cup of ice cream. Shortly thereafter, I connect with an aviation photographer (yep, we “nerd out” over camera gear), and humbly accept a staff member’s invitation to perch near a “VIP spot” at the airstrip’s end, and with great kindness, she introduces me to many new people. I revel in the joys of common ground, discovering others share my passion for America, free enterprise, serving our country, and travel as a biproduct of aviation.
By that evening, thick peach cream colored light dribbles over the horizon, and I began ripping frenetically through the Canon’s SD card, feverishly photographing every airplane silhouette, rays of pink light illuminated by dusty air. After the last minutes of precious “golden hour” sun that every photographer yearns to utilize, I mosey over for a rip-roaring good time at the Pilot’s Pub. In my mind, I prepare to stay for just one cocktail, yet find myself laughing, joking, and listening to stories until well after 11:30pm!
I flew back Sunday afternoon. I share this to offer encouragement- of finding the silver lining in spite of unexpected disappointments and loneliness. I looked forward to this trip for several months, and although unintentionally solo for most of it, I returned with a host of new friends, memories, a more resilient spirit unwilling to succumb to life’s punches, and thanking God for never leaving me stranded. (But hopefully next year will go a bit more according to plan!)
A Midwest Summer on Sugar Creek
Our paddles dip effortlessly into the creek, water dripping smoothly with each stroke, small waves rippling with the ease of flapping butterfly wings, as our canoe disturbs the stillness. We don’t speak. The others are further down, far from earshot. We don’t dare interrupt nature’s holy hush of symphonic praises.
Cicadas buzz- funny looking creatures clinging and crawling slowly across bark, leaving behind their crunchy little shells to be discovered by an awestruck young child. Birds flit between trees, rustling branches and leaves, calling to one another perfectly on-key. As soon as one finishes singing, yet another chimes in, as if God Himself stood before them conducting their orchestra in a concert hall. Nearly breathless, the sounds of nature caress my rough edges, stress melts away, and I find myself comforted as if wrapped in the arms of a lover.
Lush green fills the camera frame, spilling over edges with abundance, dripping, pulsing, with chlorophyll. We float silently under old Sycamore trees, their majestic large leaves occasionally fluttering to the ground, trunks ever-growing with ring upon ring of generations. A blue dragonfly lands on the tip of our boat, his thin delicate body radiating a neon iridescent turquoise in the sun, his coloring almost looking more appropriate for a sports car.
We search for Crinoid fossils, occasionally gasping and sharing one another’s newly discovered tiny treasures. My hand full of shells, rocks, and colorful sea glass, a camouflage toad catches my eye and leaps to safety under several weeds. We comment on a graceful blue heron in the distance as he eyes us with caution, and we barely move, hoping to catch more glimpses of his showy plumage. Monarch butterflies flit and land on a damp patch of earth along the sandbar, and I approach. Dancing upward like confetti, they zoom away leaving trails of yellow and black, circle around, and dive back toward blotches of muddy water.
I will remember not only our canoeing day on Sugar Creek, but this trip in its entirety. Fireflies blinking in dusk, nightly gathering together along bean fields, corn stalks, and tall grasses. Aged silos covered in ivy, Freedom Cemetery, and sunsets filled with intense fiery oranges, yellows, pinks- color hovering over the horizon, lazily lingering in Indiana’s dependable summer haze. The afternoon we walked through wildflowers- daisies, coneflower, sunflower, thistle, clover, tall grass prairie. You picked a yellow blossom, and I pressed it beneath the pages of my book.
Shadows of clouds on freshly cut grass, Grandpa removing his mask to blow a kiss, afternoons sitting in front porch rockers while talking for hours with Mom. Our fourteen year old Labrador Retriever meanders over to us, hips stiff from arthritis, a dignified face covered in gray, yet filled with faithful, devoted love.
One day later, I re-enter the world of chaos and COVID, voicemails and emails, “We need you to help with this,” new travel restrictions, and the isolation of quarantine. Within my mind, I plunge into memories, instantaneously taking me back to when the cicadas sang. The time we drifted in our canoe under the shade of Sycamores, their canopies protecting my weary soul, reminding me to keep drinking life’s goodness. I silently thank the river banks of Sugar Creek, knowing next summer we will do it all again, the cicadas will buzz, birds will sing, and we will spend an endless summer in one afternoon.
