When in Doubt, Go Farther West!

It was winter in the northern woods of Lower Michigan.  The snow was beautiful, but there was a lot of it! And, it was cold outside.  The “lake affect” from Lake Michigan routinely caused the weather to be surly and unpredictable.  “Bitter” was regularly added to the word “cold”.  

In December of 1978, I was staying at the camp where my parents were caretakers.  And, even though I had grown up in Michigan, the weather in this part of the state was more severe, and there was a lot less infrastructure to combat it.   

Camp had a lot of houses around it.  But, precious few were occupied in winter.  My dad made extra money patrolling a circuit of homes on snowshoes each week.  He kept an eye out, and would notify home-owners if, and when, there was damage.  Technically camp wasn’t remote – but in the winter, it felt remote.  The nearest town was 10 miles away.  Only the major roads got plowed.  We were on our own to connect ourselves to the plowed roads.  When winter arrived, we were isolated.

My parents had to be self-reliant.  They were the lone caretakers of the camp during the winter.  They had to be able to survive for days if it stormed.  Snowmobiling and snow plowing were daily activities.

Snowmobiling was primarily a tool at camp.  It was fun, but not always.  In heavy and drifting snow, snowmobiles do not always glide well.  They are weighty machines – and can easily bog down and get stuck.  Being fully bundled up and struggling to get a snowmobile unstuck when the temperature is minus 10 degrees causes lots of sweat – which freezes once you begin traveling again at 30 mph.  At that point, wind-chill is not your friend.

Weather was one cultural element I had to cross while at camp that really caught me off guard. 

So, let’s back up a moment.  If you’ll remember, two years earlier – I chose to go to the Dominican Republic.  It was on an island in the Caribbean.  The weather was tropical. The beaches were sunny and warm.   I rarely wore a jacket.  I never saw snow.  My only transportation was a motorcycle.  I had lots of human interaction and friendships. So, the conditions in December 1978 were really different from those of the previous two Decembers.  

Isolation was another cultural adjustment I had not anticipated. 

I had no friends living nearby.  There were few people who were my age.  There was no one who had recently lived in another country.   Socialization tended to be once a week at a small country church.  To top it off, the area was not my home, and except for my parents, there was no reason to set down roots. 

To sum it up, I was in transition from living in another country.  I didn’t own a vehicle, and I didn’t have a paying job.  In a sense, my dad was my boss.  I didn’t have any long-term goals.  I didn’t have any easily marketable skills.  I was rapidly becoming disillusioned and more and more discombobulated.  And, I did not know what I wanted to do next. 

 

To put it into life coaching parlance – “I was stuck!”   

I needed to figure out something – and I needed to do it quickly.  Circumstances were motivating me because I couldn’t continue doing what I was doing.

While I was in the Dominican Republic, a switch had gotten flipped on.  It was a desire to learn.  While I enjoyed traveling, part of my motivation to travel was to learning by doing.  I started to discover that I was a hands-on learner.   

As I sorted my options after the DR, it became more and more clear that I needed to go back to college.   I needed a bachelor’s degree – in SOMETHING.  In the DR, I had gotten some experience supervising education and learning.  But, without any certification or qualified training, I couldn’t transfer any of that experience to a job stateside.  Finishing a bachelor’s degree made practical sense.  So, it became my new goal.

In weighing my options, I started leaning towards Biola University in southern California.   It was a Christian university.  It was recommended, and others had transferred there from the Bible school I had attended.  Jon was one of them.  He was also one of my previous roommates, and he had recently transferred to Biola.  He said I could have a place to live if I decided to come.  He also thought that he might have a lead on a job.  I was encouraged, and this nudged me to take the next step.

So, I filled out an application, and mailed it in.

While I had been to Colorado a couple of times, I really wanted to go to California.  After living in the Dominican Republic, the sun and ocean of southern California beckoned me.  I had this “siren call” to go farther west this time, and see the Pacific Ocean.  I grew up listening to Beach Boy albums, and dreaming of surf, sun, and sand.  A cluster of friends from the Bible school and the DR were now living in California.  They encouraged me to come.   So, when I weighed my options, it just seemed to be a “given”.  I needed to go west again – just farther this time.

Things happened quickly.  Right after New Year’s Day 1979, I got my letter of acceptance and a list of courses that would transfer.  About half of my credits transferred from the Bible school.  I talked to my parents and decided to go for it.  I was to begin classes in September. The doors were opening, and it seemed like the right path. 

But, in transferring to the university in California, I still had a couple of big decisions.

Once I had gotten accepted and had decided to go - I had to decide when to go.  I had some logistics to work out.   Actually, I had eight months to kill before classes began in the fall.  I needed money.  Plus, I was no longer enamored with winter in Michigan.  So, I decided to hightail it to California as soon as I could.  Barring any winter storms, I was going to try to leave before the end of January.

Next, I had to decide how I was going to get there.

Since I didn’t own a vehicle, and I needed to take more than two suitcases of stuff, I needed to figure out a way to drive to California.  At first, I tried to see if anyone I knew was heading west, and would let me bum a ride.  I called and talked to several friends from Bible school to see if they might be interested. After telling my plan, low and behold, two of them decided to take two-week vacations from work; go to California with me; and then fly back.   

Now there were three of us, but we still had the core dilemma.  How was I going to find a vehicle that was reliable; that now could take three people, plus my stuff?  And, didn’t cost much?   

The answer was a “Drive-Away Auto Transport Company”.   Companies paired people who were willing to drive with vehicles that needed to be driven to an agreed upon destination.  So, with three drivers, we drove a new Cadillac from a car dealership in Michigan to one in Southern California.  We took some time to see sights along the way.   The weather cooperated in the Great Plains, and the Rockies.  We saw the Grand Canyon.  The trip was perfect.  In a lot of ways, we had the trip of a lifetime.  It was mostly uneventful - that is until I got a ticket in Utah.  Oops.  I guess I was in too big of a hurry to get there.

Another decision, though, with lots of long-term ramifications, was declaring a major. 

Choosing a major is a HUGE decision.  It takes you down a career path.  It leads you to relationships.  It is a major decision. (Pun intended.) When I filled out the application, I had thought about it and filled in the blank with my choice of a major.  I think that I included God in my choice.  I know my parents were praying.  For me, it was mostly a feeling.  And, knowing what I know now – I would choose it again in a heartbeat. 

As I pondered a major, there was a method to my madness. 

The subject was never as important to me as simply having a degree.  Like my dad, I had “jack-of-all-trades” tendencies.  I just wasn’t aware of them at the time.  In looking back, I tended to seek “breadth” in experiences, more than “depth”.  I liked to keep my options open.  Hedge my bets so to speak.  So, I reasoned that every discipline had a history.  Therefore a degree in History, would give me the most options.  Honestly, no joke - that was my reasoning. 

And, in some convoluted fashion, God helped me get it right.

My study of history has served me well, and I love it.  My mind easily categorizes dates and sequences of events.  It is an integral part of this blog and the unpacking my “Calling Journey”.  Hopefully this comes across in my stories.  I am also fascinated with the impact of history in shaping me and my culture.

So, for the next four and a half years, from 1979 through 1983, I live in California.  I begin to establish some patterns.  A few of them will show up later.  I work and develop a skill that I will use a lot later on.  I live with Jon the entire time.  I get a mode of transportation that alters the course of my life.  Also, by the way, I complete a degree in History at Biola University. 

And I will say this without a doubt, God was at work.  He used a passion to travel, a desire to learn, and a practical need for a degree – to get me to head farther west to the next part of my journey. 

Oh, and it won’t be the last time that I get pulled that direction!

Next Time: The Day My Compass Died


Photo Credits:

Top: Image by Jan Haerer from Pixabay
Second: Image by Michael Markus from Pixabay

Third: Image by Jennifer Regnier from Pixabay
Bottom: Image by nonbirinonko from Pixabay