"Babe, I want to go somewhere," you say, looking through the bedroom window like it was a crystal ball. It's 7 AM and the mug of coffee you woke up to five minutes ago is steaming from your hands like a campfire. You sip and your eyes close as you take it in. "Let's go somewhere."
"Where do you want to go?" I ask from behind a veil of sleepy eyes.
"I don't know." You sigh, never once taking your eyes off of the sun peeking over the mountains. "Somewhere."
I crawl out of bed and reach underneath the bedframe. You're shocked that the suitcase I pull out from under it was able to fit down there in the first place. Your eyes go wide, like this first cup of coffee was your seventh.
"Put on some shoes, darlin'. Let's go." I stand up and stretch. You look baffled.
"What are you talking about?"
"I knew this day would come. Time to go on a trip."
"But I haven't packed!" you exclaim.
"I know, so I did for you. About three weeks ago." You look at me like I'm joking. "I know that look. Not joking. Feet. Socks. Shoes. In that order. We'll get Egg McMuffins on the way." You're still standing by the window, looking confused and wondering if I'm serious. I start whistling a Willie Nelson song--"On the Road Again"--and scamper off to the kitchen to prepare my tea thermos.
And I wasn't joking. The suitcase is packed with four days' worth of clothes for each of us, and the backpack in the backseat of the car is pre-loaded with granola bars, magazines, and an in-the-car iPod charger (I knew you wouldn't have time to prepare for this). I tell you that there's a national atlas in the glove compartment. If I'm driving, you navigate, which, in this situation, includes picking a destination, but you refuse to decide.
So I decide that I'm going to take you to the place that made me believe in God.
More to come.