Travel and Verse

stories of travel, medical missions, and more

Category: Series (Page 6 of 9)

Americana Series, Part 4: America the Classic

November 12, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 86

Gems of a simpler time still exist.

Our rental car careened down the narrow North Carolina roads. We flew into Charlotte to get to our destination. We were in search of a simpler time, a simpler place.

We happen to really love North Carolina. On one side sits the Atlantic Ocean and promises of warm beaches and weekend getaways. But the direction we drove took us to the hilly and rugged lands of Appalachia. Most states in the US make the same claim: that theirs is the most varied or diverse. And if anybody from North Carolina says that, they would be right. Mountains, ocean, warm weather, and cool weather; what’s not to love?

The summer sun shone down through the Loblolly pines. We looked at the instructions listed on the Airbnb notes.

“I think this is it,” I said, though my voice betrayed my doubts.

The notes said to follow this winding road to some road marker, then turn right under the flags hanging in the trees.

I looked up and saw that the only thing hanging in the trees was a filthy, old, and torn t-shirt. Hesitantly, I turned the small SUV into the presumed driveway. The notes had also warned us to bring a vehicle with 4-wheel drive.

My wife turned to me some weeks before this and said, with a brightness in her eyes, that she wanted to stay in a cabin in the middle of the woods. And I, like the dutiful husband I am, obliged.

The dense forest opened to a small clearing. In that clearing sat an ancient cabin. Over 100 years old, the cabin had been moved here, electricity and water added, and promptly placed online for rental.

We felt like settlers.

With water.

And electricity.

And internet.

Our car unloaded, we set off for town.

And to the great delight of my wife, a classic americana experience lay in wait.

Nearby sits the small town of Mount Airy. Close to that is Pilot Mountain. To anybody familiar with classic television, these names might sound familiar.

Andy Griffith grew up in Mount Airy. And his namesake TV show is actually based on his life in that place. We parked our car and walked the streets. Little shops resemble the actual show of the fifties. A small museum contains a fine collection of Mayberry paraphernalia. And down the road, summer tourists can visit an exact replica of Andy and Barney’s sheriff’s office.

We opened the door and immediately, my wife sat behind Andy’s desk and pretended to answer the phone. I locked myself into the cell where Otis often locked himself after a night of drinking. Later, we took a ride in one of the Ford Galaxie replicas of Andy’s police car.

Not far from Mount Airy is Pilot Mountain, another picturesque town. As chance would have, a classic car show had just started that day. What could be more classically American than a classic car show?

“Look,” said my wife, “a Chevy Belair!”

“Hey, another one!”

We took a picture near around 20 Chevy Belair cars that day.

The unmistakable flavor of America’s glory days perseveres and will do so as our nation ages. I believe that it is human nature to hold onto a seemingly simpler past. It reminds us of who we were, who we are, and where we are going. And it is an especially American thing to remember the glories of our days gone by.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest

 

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Part 1: America the Good

Part 2: America the Broken

Part 3: America the Healing

Americana Series, Part 3: America the Healing

November 5, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 85

My wife and I drove our rental car past a Church sign in Delaware.

Canaan Baptist Church

It was Saturday and our flight was scheduled for tomorrow, Sunday afternoon.

“Do you think we have time to go to church?” she asked.

“Oh, probably.” I replied.

She pulled out her cell phone and began searching for the church service times and more information.

“Well,” she said, “we’ll have plenty of time to go.”

“Oh good, we might as well.”

“But,” she said smirking, “we might stand out a little bit.”

She began showing me pictures of the church’s worship service. The pictures showed a happy (and huge) congregation of Christians singing, serving, and worshiping.

And there was not a white Christian in sight.

But Church is Church, regardless of skin color. But we decided that what would stand out more than our skin color was our wardrobe. Our t-shirts and jeans just wouldn’t do. This church was more of a suit with cufflinks and dresses with white gloves kind of place.

Like a sign from God himself, we drove at that very moment past a Salvation Army Thrift store. We found a dress for her and a suit for me. All for the balmy price of $28.

The next day, we pulled into the parking lot of Canaan Baptist Church. Right away, we knew we were in trouble, but not for any skin-color reason. My Salvation Army suit didn’t seem to make the cut. Everybody was dressed to the nines. Fine pin stripes, cufflinks, Rolex watches, silk everything, diamond rings, designer dresses, white gloves; we were woefully underdressed. But it really didn’t matter.

When the doors opened there was no hesitation. Fine folks immediately welcomed us with smiling faces and strong handshakes. The building was packed. We were greeted by no less than a dozen people on our way to our seats.

The usher pushed and shouldered through the God-fearing crowd, to find us wayward guests a couple of seats. I gazed at the pew to which the kind usher had appointed us.

Third row in the front.

Smack in the middle.

As we sat down, the sun shone in through the nearby stained-glass window and landed on us like a spotlight. I began feeling even more out of place.

But soon the service started with a rumble. All of my self-centered thoughts floated away. The choir stood up, adorned with glorious hats. The organ warbled. A jazzy bass player thumped out his notes. And the tisk tisk of the snare drum rounded it out. At that moment, it didn’t matter who we were; we all clapped and sang. They pumped out song after song, one after another with no pause or transition. The choir was unstoppable—swaying back and forth, praising God above. The organist bounced up and down on her bench. The only guy in the place without a suit jacket and tie was the bassist, and he needed all the ventilation he could get. The entire pastoral staff and church leadership clapped and sang on the platform. Then, as the last song started to wind down, the pastor shimmied over to the podium and helped the choir finish the song.

He gripped the pulpit with white knuckles and the preaching started. He opened the Bible and read several verses, “amen” being cried from the other church leaders, seated behind him. He made his points with power and inflection. The entire auditorium of congregants were involved in the worship of God. Each spoke their, “amen!” and “that’s right!” and “come on!” and “bring it, pastor!” By the time the message was over, we were unified in our worship and involvement in the service.

I had never been so close to a group of people so different than myself. And it was a beautiful thing—a perfect and life-altering moment shared with another culture.

What can be said of America’s racial tension that has not already been said? In my quest to remember America’s goodness, I think about the variety of people in this nation. With so many people groups and a seemingly endless spectrum of cultures, it really shouldn’t surprise us that there would be tension.

There has been much talk recently of systemic racism. And honestly, I am not in the position to speak at length about such an important topic. Does engrained and potent racism flow systemically through the bowels of our country, poisoning the very roots of who we are?

I have no idea. But I have seen racism. And I have seen hatred.

Tension is one thing. We can work with tension.

But racism? Appalling.

A hatred for any people group, is simply shameful. And we all know it when we see it.

So how do we fix this shameful behavior?

Spotting such ingrained behavior in my own life was tricky. But I really began noticing this pattern when I started traveling. It’s amazing how all the differences between such contrasting peoples simply melt away when we sit down for a meal in their home.

May I recommend boundary-widening experiences? May I beg of you one thing?

Travel—not to places and selfie-locations. But travel to people. Find them living their beautiful and different lives.

I have heard some say that they don’t, “see color.” But I do. God created us different. And those differences make us beautiful. Those differences are actually what bind us together.  

I believe it was Michelle Obama who said that, “it is hard to hate up close.”

In a world separated by cell phones and anonymity through the internet, what could be more foreign than experiencing another’s culture up close and personal?

And when we do reach out our hands grasping for those new cultures, the people beyond that boundary generally welcome us with open embraces. We fought the Civil War. Dr King cried out for Freedom. And we came out of the other side cleansed with fire. So when we walked into that welcoming church is Delaware, America the Healing took over. And the two drastically differing peoples were able to stand side-by-side, united by a hard past, a bright future, and the desire to worship the same God. Racism cannot exist in an environment of loving closeness.

So we fight for it—every day.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Part 1: America the Good

Part 2:America the Broken

Americana Series, Part 2: America the Broken

October 29, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 84

The first time I went to Anniston Alabama opened my eyes to the South. My hotel sat in a bad part of the town that appeared to be all bad parts. I was there for a conference and wanted to get out and see what Anniston was all about.

I think my first mistake was walking into the nearest Walmart to buy some snacks. My eyes saw things I will never unsee. This place looked like the streets of Fallujah (Of course, I have never been to Iraq, but I do hope it looks better than the Walmart in Anniston.) Appalled by my, by far, worst Walmart experience ever, I left without purchasing anything.

Then as I walked down the street, I ducked into a gas station to try again for snacks. I grabbed a few things and stepped up to the counter. Facing me stood a young man, probably in his early twenties. However, he had already begun to lose his teeth at a rapid rate. His black, stringy hair hung down to his waist. And then, of course, he wore a black tank top emblazoned with the stars and bars of the Confederate flag.

“Ha-y’all doin’?” he drawled.

I dropped my few items onto the counter and asked, rhetorically, “Not a whole lot going on in Anniston, is there?” I winced at my own sarcastic tone.

“Anniston?” he exclaimed.

And without a beat said, “Ain’ nothin’ goin-on here but moonshine, illegitimate chid-ren, and drugs.”

Unfortunately, I walked away from Alabama with an unfair view of the place. But my second trip turned my compass to a truer north.

We walked into a Baptist church in the aforementioned town, a couple of years after my first experience. I spoke with many churchgoers that day. And each expressed the same thing. They all knew where they lived. They knew what it was like to live in Anniston. They knew that their town had problems. But there they stood—faithful to their community.

We finished the service and were informed that there was to be a potluck meal. As we broke bread with these people, the classic southern hospitality burned easily through my original impression of Anniston, Alabama. Each of these people had other people in their lives who struggled with something. And who knows? One of those struggles may indeed be moonshine, illegitimate children, or drugs.

America, more so than others, I think, shines as the land of opportunity. But we’ve for years thought that opportunity to be one of economic gains. Perhaps this Country grants us a better opportunity than simple jobs or money. We have here the opportunity to fail, then rise with fresh perspective and experience.

Towns full of broken families and many other problems dot America. But America is the land of grace for the fallen and second (third or fourth?) chances.

We are America, the broken. But broken bones heal stronger. We are a land of the broken families. But at the end of the day, we are still family—failures and all. We’ve fallen time and again, and always risen.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest 

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Americana Series, Part 1: America the Good

Americana Series, Part 1: America the Good

October 22, 2020 / / 3 Comments

Travel Journal, 83

I sit on a cement step outside a friend’s home in the lovely state of Kentucky. This little town, along with so many others in Kentucky, sits nestled along the base of hills and through a little ravine beside a small river. And if the natural beauty of Central Kentucky isn’t enough to convince you of America’s goodness, have a walk downtown. It drips americana. Tall post-Civil War homes line streets, each with its rocking-chair deck.

 

We went for a run yesterday. As we turned down the street and up side road, we greeted smiling faces. My friend runs this route nearly every day. He sees the same people. And every day they say the same types of things.

 

“Running hard today?”

 

“Good morning!”

 

“Well, hey, how-ya doin’?”

 

You’ve seen the movies and TV shows where the good folks sit in front of their good homes, taking in afternoon coolness in the shade of their porch. 

 

This is that place. They literally hold a glass of sweet tea and smile and wave at you. At least I think it’s sweet tea. I don’t really know what they drink in Kentucky. Lemonade? Who knows?

 

Whatever it is, it’s classically American, I can feel it. 

 

It’s times like these that make me feel like America isn’t facing hard times—like maybe everything is good. Maybe we’re going to be okay.

 

I suppose I write this now in the attempt to convince myself that America’s goodness still exists. The constant political turmoil of 2020, the ongoing chaos of differing views regarding the pandemic, and the sorrowful condition of our current cultural climate has led me to this point. Though so many are asking the question whether or not America is great, I feel that we should ask a question more basic: 

 

Is America good?

 

The problem with this question is that most people regard the word good as a subjective term. When compared to the all-good God above, I suppose everything seems pretty bleak. But even God himself looked down on his creation and said it was good. Granted, mankind has fallen into evil and does its darndest to wander (Lord, I feel it).

 

But at the end of the day, I still want to know.

 

Is America good?

 

I recently posed this question to a friend of mine. He tilted his head, pensively, and said slowly, hesitantly, “sometimes.” With all that we have seen and experienced in the past several months, I clearly understand what he means.

 

However, I think I’m more of an optimist.

 

My wife and I have, over the years, traveled to all 50 of these United States. (which, by the way, is not easy to do.) And most of the people we’ve met—whether black, white, Asian-American, Somali-American, short, thin, or wide—have been just downright good people.

 

So, is America good?

 

I think so. But as the great and powerful LeVar Burton once said, “you don’t have to take my word for it.”

 

Just take a walk down a Kentucky side-street. Wave at the friendly folks. Chances are, they’ll smile.

 

My goal over the next few weeks will be to encourage my readers to take off their glasses, coated with the hazy dust of the news, social media negativity, anger, and pride, wipe them off, and hopefully see America as good. Not because of who is or who is not President; but because of the people that live here in American community.

 

We have a term for the culture of American community:

 

Americana.

 

Sure, we have some bad stuff. Evil persists. Racism lives. Wretched attitudes thrive. I will want to explore these things.

 

But I believe that the goodness of America is the rule, and not the exception.

 

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Aedan and the Roots

October 8, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Once a month, I will post a story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 82

Our bus pulled into the city of Ennis in County Clare, Ireland. The only other person to get off the bus was a talkative, late middle-aged lady holding her purse close to her chest. She was apparently the second cousin of the bus driver. After chatting with him for an hour during transit, she disembarked the bus and we made our way to the front. We exchanged pleasantries with the driver and soon found out that the purse lady was not the only talkative one on that bus.

Most of my conversations with Irish people had started the same way.

“Where are you from?” they would ask.

And every time, in all of my vast intelligence, I would respond, “the United States.” In case the point is in question, it is very apparent that I am from the United States, especially when I open my mouth. Further, the Irish have a deep affinity for the USA. And the feeling is mutual. During an extraordinarily dark time in Irish history, the American people welcomed Irish refugees and immigrants with open arms. Ireland had been devastated with a crop-killing blight, sending the island into the Great Hunger. Millions died, and help was nowhere to be found. The Irish flocked to the far reaches of the world, but mostly to the United States. But the relationship has been very reciprocal. Without the Irish population, the Civil War could have ended far differently. Our roots go deep into Irish culture, and millions of Irish in Ireland have family here. It’s nearly symbiotic.

Our conversation continues. Soon, we become friendly. Names are exchanged.

Aedan drives commuter bus all over the southern par of the island. He tells us of his family in the USA. He smiles with pride. And I can’t help but draw similarities between our two countries. All I can think of is how many people are doing the same thing right now in my own country—excitedly telling somebody of a long-lost family in Ireland.

Aedan tells of watching American TV in the 70s and how he had never had a milkshake until his first trip to America. He goes on and on and it’s refreshing. Aedan marvels at the beauty of the Grand Canyon. And I express my marvel at his Emerald Isle. Perhaps there’s a lesson there. But maybe not.

Our two countries have shared roots and connections that reach far deeper than this. But it is a beautiful thing when those roots occasionally spring to the surface.

 

anthony forrest 

Favorite Trips: Tragedy in the Channel Islands

September 17, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Once a month, I will post a favorite story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 79

My stomach dropped as my thumb scrolled over the screen on my phone. I read in horror about the 75-foot dive boat, the Conception, which caught fire and consequently sank to the bottom of the ocean. At first, details were sparse. But over the course of 2 days, clearer and clearer information was revealed. California and scuba diving communities throughout the US were shocked to hear 34 of the 39 passengers and crew members had died in the tragic accident that occurred September 2nd, 2019. On the ocean floor in the Channel Islands lies the remains of the Conception.

The Channel Islands off the coast of California are wild and windblown. Cold water and ethereal kelp forests make for a very unique diving experience. The Channel Islands are not a convenient place to visit. They are out of the way and nearly inaccessible. And maybe that’s what draws us. A couple of years ago my dad and I dove the Islands. We boarded the Truth—sister ship to the Conception. Truth Aquatics hosts many live-aboard dive experiences a year. There’s just something about being aboard a ship in a rural area.

We dragged our gear onto the deck as the sun set the distance. Each passenger boarded that evening and settled in for the three-day excursion. We hung around on the deck, excitedly. Everybody eyed each other’s gear and chatted about the upcoming dives. It may be cold in other areas of the country, but in Santa Barbara California, the sun always shines. Although it is a little cool, it’s still my kind of weather, shorts and a sweatshirt.

I can imagine what was going through the minds of the victims the night before the Conception caught fire. I laid there and excitedly waited for sleep to come as I thought about diving that beautiful piece of ocean. The waves rocked me to sleep and the gentle hum of the diesel engine lulled my mind into unconsciousness.

Before I opened my eyes to see my surroundings, I could hear and feel and smell my whereabouts. My sleeping bag was wrapped tight around my neck and shoulders. The three-inch pad on which I slept the night before provided shocking amounts of comfort. When we boarded the Truth, my dad said that we needed to pick out bunks close to the front of the boat. Not only would the boat’s listing and swaying feel gentler, but the nearby engine compartment would give off a drone that would muffle all other sound.

And he was not wrong.

From above, smells of coffee and bacon floated down the hatch. I opened my eyes and saw the California sunshine peeking into the boat. My watch read 6:30 a.m. I could tell that others were up and moving about. And from someplace, I heard music. The 69-foot Truth listed gently and the diesel engines continued to hum.

I swung my legs off the upper bunk, trying not to kick my dad in the face. Each step on the wooden stairs creaked under my dirty bare feet. As I climbed stairs to the top deck, the music wove into focus. The Red Hot Chili Peppers were singing about the various subcultures of a Southern California lifestyle. On the counter by the stereo sat a boxed-set CD anthology. Topside, I was met with smiling faces of neo-hippy dive masters and deck hands. They live for this.

“Coffee?” asked a 20-something with blonde dreadlocks.

“My people,” I thought.

I wrote my name with a dry erase marker onto an aluminum mug. Taking a sip, I looked out at the nearby Santa Cruz island. The sun was up and warm, but not hot. Small ocean swells promised lovely diving. And misting saltwater somehow made the black coffee taste even better. We would be diving for two days, all day. The crew of the Truth knew how to give their divers a good time.

Coffee anytime.

Tons of food.

Comfy bunks.

Hot showers.

Gear setup.

And bottomless tanks of all the air you could breathe.

This was going to be incredible. My dad had roused and breakfast was getting under way. This was the life. We love to dive together. We know how each other thinks and we are very comfortable as dive partners. We love the adventure. And we love the ocean.

The dive community is tight-knit and comes together for two things, for love of the ocean and to experience it together.

Nobody expects the worst to happen.

Nobody expects a fire to break out aboard your ship at 3 AM.

All the safety measures in the world can’t fight against unforeseen tragedy.

Because bad things happen.

The best we can do is to pray for the families, support the community, and remember the lost souls that sank that terrible night aboard the dive ship Conception.

Rest in peace, fellow lovers of the ocean.

anthony forrest

*Update: the sinking of the dive boat Conception is now considered the worst maritime disaster since 1865.    

Favorite Trips: The Holocaust, Pearl Harbor, and Meaningful Travel

August 20, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Once a month, I will post a favorite story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 76

I have said this before, many times. And I will, no doubt, say it again.

Traveling is different than vacationing.

Sometimes, after walking in work or church or upon meeting a friend for coffee, I will hear a question that I get a lot.

“Were you on vacation?”

It’s a good question. Friends and acquaintances see pictures of my wife and I on social media. Perhaps we’re standing near an old statue in another country, or eating barbeque in the deep south. We have smiles on our faces. We are indeed enjoying ourselves. But to say that we are always vacationing would not be accurate. But it’s unfair to drop into a philosophical discussion on the subtle (and not-so-subtle) differences between travel and vacation when having a five-minute chat. It’s more important than that.

While vacation may appear the same as travel, it is vastly different. But I’m not going to begin bashing vacation. Sometimes you just need to sit on the beach and take in the ocean breeze. Taking a break from the stresses of career and life in general helps to reset the mind and greatly benefits emotional and mental health.

Please, by all means, take a vacation.

But how does one travel? Most of the time, travel wears on you. Travel tends to be a lot of work. It involves less rest and relaxation. And when you get back, all you feel like doing is sleeping. But if it’s so much work, why travel at all? Because travel is growth. It informs your soul and changes your perspective on life and the lives of other people.

Mark Twain published Innocents Abroad in 1869, but I think his words cut deeply into today.

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”

June, 2017

We stepped off the train into the heat of the German summer. We had not planned on this. However, our flight out of Munich back to the US wasn’t scheduled to leave for 8 hours more. One of the biggest travel tips I give others is to not miss opportunities, especially when you have extra time. We had extra time. And not too far from Munich lies the small city of Dachau. If that name sounds familiar, it’s probably because you heard it in a history class. Atrocities happened here. It was the first of many concentration camps during WWII. Thousands of people suffered and died at the hands of an evil regime. Jews, Catholics, political prisoners, homosexuals, gypsies, and anybody else that didn’t fit rightly into the Third Reich’s false picture of utopia, were imprisoned here.

We carried our bags on our shoulders because we couldn’t find a luggage locker at the nearby train station. We payed our fee and entered the massive complex. Overhead a cast iron, barred sign read “Arbeit macht frei.” Work will set you free.

It never did.

Acre after acre of sprawling complex-turned-memorial displayed pictures, signs, statues, and artifacts of the evil capabilities of mankind.

This room was used for solitary confinement.

The poles over there are where the Nazis used to hang rulebreakers.

See that door? That leads to where the “doctors” performed medical experiments.

How fitting that we were stuck with hauling around our luggage for three hours. But the weight we felt that day couldn’t have been made worse by a couple of bags. We sweat and staggered around until we couldn’t take it anymore. We could have spent two days studying and viewing the Dachau Concentration Camp. But there was no way. We can only take so much death and dying in one day.

Come, follow me to Hawaii.

May, 2018

Our mothers joined us for a fantastic and relaxing adventure to Oahu. We drove the island, ate tons of great food, relaxed, and spent time by the ocean. Most of it was vacation. But it had one blemish, leaving a bitter (but important) taste.

We stood near the bay at Pearl Harbor. Thousands died here during a surprise attack from an exotic country with which we weren’t even at war. The Imperial Japanese military carried out one of the most iconic and deadly attacks of the 20th century. Their goal was to destroy US aircraft carriers, delaying or preventing any US involvement in a brewing Indo-Chinese and Pacific conflict. Though no carriers were destroyed, thousands of people lost their lives. The US entered into war with Japan the next day. Americans died. Japanese died. And though we tend to think about “who won” WWII, nobody really won. Everybody lost.

Our boat cruised the watery graveyard. We saw pieces of ships rising above the sea, as the guide spoke of bombs falling and fires starting. I imagine battleships, full of fuel oil, leaking into the ocean. An oil slick on the surface, six inches deep in some places, ignites into a black-smoke fire. Bombs drop onto ships. Seamen leap to avoid death, only to find it faster in the hellish, burning ocean.

The visit to Pearl Harbor was amazing, but not because it was fun. It was amazing in the truest sense. Loss of life should always amaze. The incident was not that long ago. And it was perpetuated by fellow humans. Pearl Harbor changes you; teaches you.

Not every traveling experience will brand sadness into your soul. But sometimes it will. Neither Dachau nor Pearl Harbor are good places to vacation. But they are excellent places to travel. Taking the time to travel is soul-instructing and character-changing.

Travel if you dare to better yourself. Gather your bags and make a personal journey. Grow yourself and become more human. Release the prejudice in your grasp. But take caution, traveling is not for the faint of heart.

For travel can be fatal to preconceptions.

And it is much different than going on vacation.

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Not Cheap

July 9, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Once a month, I will post a favorite story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 72

A dull throbbing cut through my worn-out running shoes and seeped into the pads of my feet. The ancient stone floor wasn’t helping. Jet lagged and bedraggled, there we stood—occasionally. After short intervals of standing, a hallow voice asked us to be seated. And so the pattern continued. Stand, sit, stand, sit.

Every once and a while I smelled smoke and wax. Burning candles glowed on tables and shelves and stone and glass. But the aroma implied so much more than just a burning candle. It hinted at old candles, new candles, forgotten candles. It was the aroma of candles continuously burning—maybe for centuries. Out of the smoke and silence rose a voice; many voices. Soon the Choir of Westminster Abbey all sang together. They had started so quietly that I hardly knew when they had begun. Perhaps the choir had always been singing. Was I not listening?

My feet still hurt. But the intoxicating cold stone, smoke, and music gently eased the ache. We had walked all over London—Piccadilly circus, Parliament, London Tower, new roads, old roads, iconic ally-ways, ect. The day culminated at the Westminster Abbey for evensong. Nearly every day, the old church hosts an evening worship service comprised of Biblical readings and ethereal choral music. The day began to close as we made our way to the church. As we waited in line, I turned to read a nearby sign.

“No Pictures. No Mobile Phones.”

I begrudgingly stuffed my eager phone (already 9 months pregnant with travel photos) back into my pocket. But as we shuffled quietly into the building, all desire to take pictures fell away. We found our spot in folding chairs on the old stone floor. Then it all began. And our tired bodies and minds vulnerably soaked up the experience like a dry rag.

After an hour, it was over and we shuffled back out toward the door. Nearby, a not-so-sneaky tourist held up a cellphone and snapped a photo. Out from behind him, a vicar began verbally berating the man for taking a photo.

Only an hour ago that was me. But now I was as appalled as the irritated Church leader. How could he take a picture after something like that? Did we not have the same experience?

Pictures have their place. And I am still trying to find all those places. But I long for the places where picture taking seems inappropriate. Places like Westminster Abbey tend to make cell phones feel cheap and indecent. I want to see those places. I want to experience places of awe and dignity where trivial things like pain and jet lag melt away.

A picture may say a thousand words, but it turns out that I don’t really care. The smell of smoke and wax burns my mind. The music haunts my nights. And an experience like that cannot be cheaply manufactured (or even recalled) by any technology.

 

anthony forrest

Hover Hole and The Hoop of Hope

July 2, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Foreign Bathroom Series, Chapter 6

Travel Journal, 71

 

As always in this series, names of those involved have been removed or redacted to protect the (possibly) innocent and (definitely) embarrassed. 

 

Deep in the Peruvian Jungle, our medical mission team set out on a river boat destined for several small villages. Our task for the week required us to travel a great distance into the jungle. The first day alone we spent over 10 hours in an 80 foot-long, flat-back river canoe with a huge engine. We saw a few settlements along the way. And, needless to say, we didn’t have a chance to stop at a luxurious rest area, complete with running water and cold Pepsi machines. No, in fact, we stopped only once or twice during that 10-hour trip.

But alas, mankind must eat.

Mankind must drink.

And what goes in must come out.

The two boat stops granted relief for any…er…major business. But what about the rest of the time?

For the lads, a curious leaning and balancing act off the back of the boat does the trick. And it comes so naturally. Boys will be boys, right?

But what about the lady folk?

I give you: The Hoop of Hope.

One luxurious item brought aboard was a camping/chemical toilet. The tiny box completes the bathroom objective easily. Though the real trick is not the toilet. It’s privacy. One genius mind concocted the idea to hang a shower curtain around a hula hoop. And, since the female of the species tends to go to the restroom in herds, the three-foot diameter hoop can be upheld by lady friends and used one at a time.

The Hoop of Hope.

When the boat arrived at the various locals on our mission, The Hoop of Hope was no longer required. Each settlement has a bathroom. Although, I use that term in its loosest form.

Not too far from huts and hammocks sits a tiny shack. It appears to be hastily assembled with ill-fitting boards and a partial Brazil Nut bag for a “door.” Enter and look down.

May I introduce to you: The Hover Hole—the one foreign bathroom experience that always gives newcomers a challenge.

The name gives away its purpose. When first venturing out into hover hole territory, one must consider tactics and strategy. Two boards line a hole in the ground. Stand on these when using the Hover Hole. Balance is key. Touching the ground for stability is fraught with consequences.  Bring your own toilet paper, but take care not to set it down anywhere (for the same reason you don’t want to touch the ground). Accidents can and will happen, though. One of the kids traveling with us lost his sandal down a hover hole. But don’t worry, somebody retrieved it for him. Not long after (perhaps not long enough?), I saw him wearing it.

It may be a new experience, but I assure you, many parts of the world utilize this form of toiletry. And when pressed, mankind can adapt to most forms of bathroom use.

Though the one form that was entirely new to me was the sparkling brilliance of the well-crafted Hoop of Hope. May is give hopeful relief to boat travelers for years to come.

anthony forrest

Check out the other chapters to this fun series:

Part 1: Bidet

Part 2: The Lav

Part 3: Floor Towel

Part 4: 20p Toilet

Part 5: Dutch Hostel

 

Favorite Trips: The Mirror

June 11, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Once a month, I will post a favorite story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 68

Another rough night in the airport. I balanced my toothbrush on the counter ledge while I splashed my face with water. I know I shouldn’t complain about travel. God has blessed my wife and I with the ability and opportunity to see, learn, share, and discover unmeasured blessings during our travels. But each time I sleep on an airport floor, I get a little broken—little more bent over, like an old man having lived an old life. But fresh clothes, toothbrush, and face-splash of motion activated sink water were slowly injecting life back into my soul.

Glasses back on, I look up to survey the damage.

Not too bad.

I turned to walk out of the bathroom and spotted something out of the corner of my eye. Etched into the mirror were these words,

“forgive yourself.”

I’ve seen these words before. They’re all over social media, self-help books and blogs, and on the lips of many popular Christian speakers.

Standing there, I wonder what this person has done. He has gotten himself into trouble, and now he’s looking for answers. He wants to be forgiven. But he looks to himself for answers. He seeks in vain. How can any of us expect to save ourselves from ourselves?

There is but One who has promised forgiveness. God grants it—freely. Though our sins are like scarlet, He makes us whiter than snow. He pardons with a smile. So look not into the mirror seeking answers within yourself.

 

Stand and peer

Into mirror

To seek to

Know your soul

 

Turn and look

Read like a book

The narrative

Of your heart

 

Tune your ears

And listen with tears

To a song

You do not know

 

Rest in peace

For His love will not cease

God’s knowledge of you

Is enough

 

anthony forrest

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