I Didn't Want to Go

I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to go to my great-grandparents house—it was always stiflingly warm and it smelled funny. Unless we sat outside, where the wasps were building a nest not three feet from the backyard swing. We’d sit for hours, talking about relatives dead long before my birth or events I knew nothing about. It was always grownup stuff and I, as a matter of fact, was not a grownup. Old people in an old house filled with old stuff. However, I guess that stuff wasn’t always so old. My great-grandfather was a Seabee in World War II. The old man I knew was quiet and tightly laced. The young man who I never knew smuggled Bibles to the tribes in the wild jungles of New Guinea, and hopped trains as a boy. My great-grandmother was a wild, stubborn woman. She was once a simple wife working a downtown job, that is, a simple wife with a switchblade in her pocket. She collected stuffed bunnies and bonnets; she used to mount giant draft horses and galivant across the fields. I have my great-grandmother’s bunnies; I have my great-grandfather’s Seabees ring. I am so glad I went.

           I didn’t want to go. At fourteen years old, why would I want to go grocery shopping with my mother? Between talking to friends and partaking in hobbies, I had better things to do. The grocery store was so busy, and all we did was walk up and down aisles and put things in the cart. Then I got older. We would talk about life, love, and anything else under the sun. We would stop off at a Starbucks or a local donut shop and reward ourselves with a treat for our troubles. The day before we would sit and plan, flipping through cookbooks and magazines and jotting down our ideas. There was no better time to discover life’s greatest mysteries than the couple hours it took to cross everything else off our list. We learned the secrets of each other’s lives. I found my closest confidant, my partner in crime. Who would have thought I would have missed grocery shopping so much? I am so glad I went.

           I didn’t want to go. It was twenty degrees outside with two feet of snow on the ground. The last thing I felt like doing was going outside and riding horses. The wind was so cold that I couldn’t feel my fingers. The air burned my throat and made me wish I could refrain from another breath, even as I huffed and puffed to make my way through the deep white fluff. Frost collected on the horses’ whiskers as they exhaled clouds of wet air. I had to break the ice out of their water buckets with a hammer. Even the manure was frozen to the ground, despite my frustrated attempts to pry it loose. My complaints aside, I pulled out my favorite steed and swung a saddle over her back, willing my numb fingers to tighten the straps. I used the last warmth of my breath to warm up the cold metal of the bit, valuing her comfort over my own. I swung astride and forded out into the arena. The sun sparkled off the snow, shining like Heaven’s light off of the white surface. My horse’s black and white hide contrasted in awe-striking beauty with the pure white of it. Her snorted echoed off of the icicle-laden trees, making me wonder why I put this off. I felt her strength as she plowed through the snow drifts. After our ride I pulled the saddle off, feeling the heat roll off her back into my red, chapped face. I am so glad I went.

           I didn’t want to go. I had had a terrible week; the last thing I felt like doing was going to church. Everyone was always so cheerful, saying hello and wanting to know how I had been. The music would be loud, and then we would have to sit in silence for an hour. I didn’t even want to be awake, let alone reverent. Then worship began. At the first notes of “Amazing Grace,” I felt healing tears begin to stream down my cheeks. I sang to my troubles, remembering the story of the slave owner who wrote that song after being morally convicted of his wrongs. We sat down, and the preacher began to tear open my calloused heart. He told us about Elijah, a man once so filled with strife that he told God he wished to die. However, God didn’t yield to Elijah’s wish. Instead, He called him to a mountain. God called Elijah to a mountain, and gave him hope within the quietest whisper among a whirlwind. That morning, I heard that whisper as a deafening roar. I found the perseverance to keep moving forward, to endure the storm and hold out for the calmer seas. I am so glad I went.

           I didn’t want to go. It was an especially hot summer, and so humid that your clothes were soaked through before you even had the chance to sweat. Working on the plow truck with my father didn’t sound like a grand summer afternoon. We didn’t know why it wouldn’t start; all we knew was that the problem was under the truck. The truck was old, so working underneath of it meant rust would fall into our faces with every twist of a wrench. We laid under that old truck for hours that weekend, trying every possibility we could think of to bring it to life. I think my father and I touched on every topic under the sun—horses, cars, the boy I liked, what my mother would make for dinner. We talked like we hadn’t in far too long. He told me stories about his life growing up, and I shared my much shorter experiences with life. We talked politics, and our shared love of martial arts. By chance, I found the problem when I almost poked my eye out on some loose wires. My father connected the wires, and that old truck roared our success. I remember the joyride we took, tearing down the grey county roads with the windows rolled down as the local country station sang from the radio. That weekend is still a story we reminisce to each other. I am so glad I went.

           I didn’t want to go. The thing is, I am so glad I went.