A few years ago dad told me a story about an experience he had recently had. Mom was a leader at Young Women’s Girl’s camp and she asked dad to join her as a chaperon for the week. Of course dad agreed, and so to camp they went. Dad was an adventurous soul so the thought of him spending a week walking around Girl’s camp still makes me smile. Making tie-dyed shirts, sharing cute bandanas, and writing notes about self worth — those were all things I am sure he would have naturally done with his time off work.
Despite all the festivities happening during the daily activities, his chaperon responsibilities were not satisfying his need for high adventure. To fill that void, one morning he work up early and left my mom and Girl’s Camp behind to find a hike in the surrounding hills. As was his custom, he chose not to follow a marked trail, and there was no trail regardless, so he just wandered. While he did wander, it was not aimless wandering, which would have been foolish and irresponsible — especially for a Girl’s Camp chaperon. Instead he had a simply, yet effective navigational technique that was almost foolproof. At every fork or branch in the trail, he stomped his foot in the soft arid dirt indicating the direction from which he had come. Each footprint indicated a turn and pointed the way back to camp. And so he went on in this fashion for a while.
As luck would have it, he quickly learned that this seemingly infallible system had one major flaw: rain. As the rain storm passed through quickly, it took with it the footprints in the dirt. Just like that, he had lost his ability to navigate back to the safety of — all things — Girl's Camp.
Oddly enough, even when dad was lost, he was not alarmed, as "lost" was really familiar ground for dad. This was not the first time and he was sure it wouldn't be the last time. As time passed though, all the hills and valleys started to look more the same, dad's usual confidence turned to worry. If he didn’t make it home in a couple hours mom might wake up before he returned and start to worry.
Despite all the festivities happening during the daily activities, his chaperon responsibilities were not satisfying his need for high adventure. To fill that void, one morning he work up early and left my mom and Girl’s Camp behind to find a hike in the surrounding hills. As was his custom, he chose not to follow a marked trail, and there was no trail regardless, so he just wandered. While he did wander, it was not aimless wandering, which would have been foolish and irresponsible — especially for a Girl’s Camp chaperon. Instead he had a simply, yet effective navigational technique that was almost foolproof. At every fork or branch in the trail, he stomped his foot in the soft arid dirt indicating the direction from which he had come. Each footprint indicated a turn and pointed the way back to camp. And so he went on in this fashion for a while.
As luck would have it, he quickly learned that this seemingly infallible system had one major flaw: rain. As the rain storm passed through quickly, it took with it the footprints in the dirt. Just like that, he had lost his ability to navigate back to the safety of — all things — Girl's Camp.
Oddly enough, even when dad was lost, he was not alarmed, as "lost" was really familiar ground for dad. This was not the first time and he was sure it wouldn't be the last time. As time passed though, all the hills and valleys started to look more the same, dad's usual confidence turned to worry. If he didn’t make it home in a couple hours mom might wake up before he returned and start to worry.
So what happened? Well obviously, he found his way back before anyone really noticed he was gone. In recounting this story dad told me while he was out there disoriented in the hills, he started to worry that this might be the “helicopter trip,” or more specifically — the trip that required search and rescue instead of just patience and perseverance.
As I think back on this story, I can’t help but think about perspective. Dad was never really too far from camp or a trail, but his perspective on the ground surrounded by small hills that failed to provide much of a reference, it was difficult for him to know which way was which. If he had only had the luxury of elevation — if he could look down on his location from even 1,000 feet — he would have likely been able to find a distinguishing landmark that would orient him toward his destination.
When you’re lost, it’s easy to feel like it’s not fair. Maybe someone changed the rules or something. Maybe trees, or hills, or even mountains were placed in your way, obstructing your view. In reality, the only thing that has changed is your perspective. When you’re lost, the hills or miles between you and your car, home, or safety have not changed. The same path that took you to where you are, will take you back. What has happened is your perspective changed such that something that was familiar or easy, no longer is.
As I think back on this story, I can’t help but think about perspective. Dad was never really too far from camp or a trail, but his perspective on the ground surrounded by small hills that failed to provide much of a reference, it was difficult for him to know which way was which. If he had only had the luxury of elevation — if he could look down on his location from even 1,000 feet — he would have likely been able to find a distinguishing landmark that would orient him toward his destination.
When you’re lost, it’s easy to feel like it’s not fair. Maybe someone changed the rules or something. Maybe trees, or hills, or even mountains were placed in your way, obstructing your view. In reality, the only thing that has changed is your perspective. When you’re lost, the hills or miles between you and your car, home, or safety have not changed. The same path that took you to where you are, will take you back. What has happened is your perspective changed such that something that was familiar or easy, no longer is.
When dad had his accident, I instantly felt like I imagine he must have felt when that rain came in unexpectedly. I woke up that morning and knew where I was and felt like I was in complete control. From one uncontrollable minute to the next, the game changed. The footprints were gone. It was one of my life’s strongest “life’s not fair” moments. Over the next 11 days I had a lot of time to think. It wasn’t immediate or easy, but through the time we spent together as a family in the hospital waiting for dad, I feel like I was given the perspective that elevated me off the ground and let me look down at the surrounding hills and landmarks and better understand where I was, and what was next.
That perspective brought me one vivid, yet positive memory. I remember the first day as we gathered as a family at the hospital. After a couple hours of shock I came to the sad realization of what might happen. But strangely, as I thought about that, I couldn’t also help but think about my Grandpa Blair waiting on the other side. Then I thought about my dad who had to say goodbye to him unexpectedly nearly 30 years ago. As much as I wanted dad here with us forever, it made me happy knowing that there might be a a long-awaited reunion for dad and grandpa soon. I am very thankful for this perspective.
That perspective brought me one vivid, yet positive memory. I remember the first day as we gathered as a family at the hospital. After a couple hours of shock I came to the sad realization of what might happen. But strangely, as I thought about that, I couldn’t also help but think about my Grandpa Blair waiting on the other side. Then I thought about my dad who had to say goodbye to him unexpectedly nearly 30 years ago. As much as I wanted dad here with us forever, it made me happy knowing that there might be a a long-awaited reunion for dad and grandpa soon. I am very thankful for this perspective.
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