So last night I was stomping around the kitchen, which I do from time to time. R often thinks I am stomping in judgment. (Can one stomp judgmentally? I’m afraid one can.) Often I am whirling around in that “How did we let it get so bad” cleaning frenzy.

Last night was one of those times, exacerbated by the garage door which broke on Monday when C helpfully closed it on the open hatch of the van; the dishwasher latch has been busted for a while, requiring some finesse to open the dishwasher; and so on. A laundry basket sat nearby with half-folded clothes. I had gotten pulled away from the task earlier in the evening. How sad is it that I can’t stand a half-folded basket of clothes? I can let UNfolded baskets of clothes sit for days.

Everything spirals toward chaos, doesn’t it, including household appliances. So I think what I need to do is walk around the ruins of a 13th-century Benedictine nunnery and see the beauty of eternally falling-apart things. Because it’s not really the dishwasher or the garage door; it’s that if, by some horrible twist of fate, something dreadful happens on the plane or in the train station or anywhere else, the toddler who just honked my nose would not remember me. It’s true. Do you vividly remember 18 months of age? Maybe smudges of impressions. I don’t want to be a smudge.

However, while I’m feeling the combination of grief over what might happen, I am feeling much more excitement over what will be in abundance on this trip: newness, adventure, quiet, space. That’s a ratio of emotion I can live with.

California CG sent me this James Avery charm when C was born. Many times have I sat with C on my lap and traced the larger side of the heart, then the smaller, saying, “This part’s for Mommy and this part’s for C.”

Later when M was born, CCG sent a pendant made from an old typewriter key: M. I have both on a chain around my neck and they are jingling lightly as I get ready to leave.

Several years ago I returned to Crusty ol’ Theological Seminary for a week of study leave in spiritual formation. I wrote this on the blog after the experience. It illustrates why I’m so looking forward to this trip:

During the closing worship at the end of the spiritual formation week, each of us renewed our baptismal vows, and the group laid hands on each person in turn and then prayed for him or her.

We laid hands on the director of the program, J, a woman with a lovely, large presence and a hug that is so big and gracious, you could always just tell she was saying a little prayer for you as she embraced you. The assistant director, L, prayed the out-loud part, and the rest of us rested our hands on her shoulders and head. I think the director wept. It is powerful, the laying on of hands. It feels very weighty, with a tremendous sort of heat to it.

Later L told me about their recent trip to Iona with a group of pilgrims. One day L & J were walking around the old nunnery, which is nothing but a shell of a brick building anymore. If you know Iona, you know it is described as a thin space. L shared that the two of them felt the presence of all those women who had walked and lived and prayed in that space before.

At this point L looked me in the eye and said, “You were there.”

“You were there. I felt it then, and so did J. And I felt it just now when we were huddled over J in prayer. You were one of those old women at Iona.”

I’ve realized over time, some things it’s best not to parse; better just to let them be. I admit that I try to figure out such illogical revelations, to try to impose something systematic around them. This woman is no flake; she is solid as stone. All I know is, it’s not about reincarnation or anything so, well, structured as that. Best I can figure, it’s about a sense of eternity in each person, eternity that is nonetheless rooted in particular places on this earth. I believe everyone has a place—maybe multiple places, who knows. I don’t know whether Iona is my place, but I know that when I see pictures of that wild barren landscape, or those long cloister hallways, something inside crackles.

Traveling mercies to you, me, all of us on this great pilgrimage called life.