A broken marriage, 81 hours of support-group meetings and a 2,000-mile motor-home trip across the country with her son.
The image came to me like a bolt of lightning: my nine-year-old son, Trace, and me in a motor home, driving across the country. It was an old motor home, a little beat up, but getting us where we needed to go.
We’d head west from where we lived, in New England, all the way out to Oregon, where I grew up. I saw us arriving weeks later at Cannon Beach on the Oregon coast, one of my favorite places in the world. Trace would play in the sand while I watched the light fade over the Pacific.
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I’d never driven that far and I didn’t own an RV. But the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to take that trip. No, I needed to take it.
Just a few weeks earlier, my husband, Trace’s dad, had handed me a long, rambling letter informing me that he’d cheated on me. Not once but many times throughout our 10-year marriage.
Trace and I moved out of the house as soon as I could get my things together. More revelations came out and I knew the marriage had to end. I ran a successful wedding photography business but I had to sell it because weddings happen on weekends and now there was no husband to watch Trace.
I was lucky to find a Monday-to-Friday job in marketing, though it paid less, and a small house for Trace and me to live in.
But as far as everything else went, I didn’t know what to count on. Who to trust. Not myself, that was for sure. How could I not have known? Was I really that blind? I lay awake at night finding all sorts of reasons I’d be a terrible single mom and mess up everything for Trace.
That’s when the motor-home idea barged in. An escapist fantasy, I decided. But it wouldn’t leave me alone. I pictured the open road. Freedom. Breaking from the past and starting a new chapter.
Mostly it was something to think about besides annulment papers and custody agreements, support-group meetings and self-recrimination.
Before I knew it I’d found a used 1986 Ford Holiday Rambler online. I couldn’t afford more than $5,000 and it was $6,500. I went to look at it anyway, just to see what an RV was like inside. This one was cozy, with a full kitchen and a big sleeping area over the cab.
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Although it was old–almost as old as me–everything worked great. I told the nice couple who owned it my story. On the spot they offered to knock $1,500 off the price. How could I say no? All of a sudden I was committed.
I made a plan. I’d save money for the rest of the school year and we’d embark in July, after Trace finished third grade. My mom helped me pick a route. We’d travel I-90, staying in campgrounds and venturing off the highway whenever we felt like it.
I downloaded an app for my phone that shows you offbeat sights based on your location. Life-size statue of the Jolly Green Giant, here we come!
I even came up with a slogan for our trip: “Defiant Joy.” I was in the middle of a Bible study at church, and one of the study guides said that in Scripture the word joy isn’t just a noun. It’s more active than that, something you do, or at least try to do.
I’d found it hard to pray coherently ever since my ex’s bombshell. Maybe this trip could be like one giant prayer for joy.
My sister designed T-shirts with Defiant Joy printed on the front beneath a picture of the RV. Trace and I would hand them out to anyone who wanted one. We’d wear our joy on the outside no matter how we felt on the inside.
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