You arrange to meet for coffee, to come over and watch a movie, to play games. You are invited to the party and you have a few threads for the person next to you, a few yarns for the whole group, a few revelations to give and receive. You go to the dinner party and you pinch the dumplings closed before shoveling them into your mouth, laughing with three friends across the table, three good friends from across the world.
You page through your journal and realize that these memories are underrepresented, that more painful ones take top billing, that you’ve written about the same hard things over and over again. It was something you needed to do, you admit, but your life this January, this February, holds more than that.
Don’t forget today, you tell yourself. It’s 3 o’clock in the morning, but you are high on life and you don’t care. Somehow, you don’t think you’ll regret lying on your back, holding your brand-new memories lightly, because they are light. There is nothing rough mixed in, no desperation to clutch every word as if it were the last of its kind.
And it’s not just today.
You eat ice cream on what was then the coldest night of the year, wearing pajamas you borrowed from your friend. You prop up your head with your hand, flattening the pillow under your arm, and talk until the snowplows scrape down Genesee Street.
You are leaving campus when you see a friend of yours sitting at a table. You stop and say hello, and before you know it you are in a coffee shop sipping a chai latte, lingering until closing time, and not just to avoid the wind. You didn’t realize until now how much the two of you have in common.
You stop by the office for a moment and stay almost two hours, until you absolutely have to leave. You pick up the threads of a conversation that started months ago, your favorite sort of conversation, comparing notes and reminiscing about the children’s stories that no one else here knows, the questions that have answers and those that do not.
You drive on two-lane roads to what must surely be the center of the state, two hours there and two hours back, but even though it’s a cold, rainy night, you are in no rush to be home again. You can’t remember the last time you talked this freely for this long without knowing in your bones that it couldn’t last, that it was too good to be true. “I could talk to you about anything,” she says. You believe her, and you agree.
It’s 4 o’clock now. You plug in your headphones and play the old Mozart piece “Rondo Alla Turca” on your new digital piano before finally drifting off to sleep.
You wake up one morning feeling the weight of the world, or the weight of your world. Maybe it was a dream that made your eyes snap open, made your heart sink, but you can’t remember. It’s your first time being rested in days, but you don’t feel rested.
You haven’t been taking care of yourself the way you promised you would this semester, and not just with the whole sleeping thing. Your kickboxing gloves still lie, dusty and cold, in the back seat of your car. You only have microwave dinners and you aren’t reading the library books that promise escape or introspection or both.
You are writing, though, I’ll give you that. You’ve produced an impressive amount of pages in a short amount of time, pages in your journal, pages in the word processor, more files than you can count on two hands, but at this point, sometimes, you feel like you’re just going around and around in circles, as sad music plays and you’re forever swiping left past the faces of Central New York men who couldn’t interest you less.
You are also seeing your friends here more often. That’s big, you remind yourself, these late-night conversations and round-table dinners and coffee-shop confessionals. It’s more than last semester. Maybe you’ll be sad to leave Syracuse after all, 100 days from now.
You have been rising in the ranks. Your name is attached to more projects and known to more people. The future is still hazy, but there is a distinguishable hue to it now. You don’t say, “I don’t know” anymore when people ask you what the plan is after graduation.
But you wish you cared a little more about what is happening here than about what you’ve left behind. You spent so much of your winter break dreading the return, only to find yourself displaced in the places you’d once called home. A lot can happen in five weeks, and a lot did happen in five weeks.
Melancholy can be a comfort when you can see the arc of loss and tell the story and point to a specific person or event, to a before and after, and you can almost believe in the healing passage of time. But that nameless lethargy, with no beginning or end in sight, is less sexy. Depression has no juicy details. It is the difference between felt pain and the absence of feeling, between the past and the present, between being awake and asleep.
It is winter in America’s snowiest city, and you are awake and asleep.
I wrote this in 2008 as a heartfelt response to the 20th-anniversary live show of children’s radio drama Adventures in Odyssey. As this piece of writing predates this blog, and as I have done so much blog writing about the show since then, particularly this more-complicated-but-no-less-heartfelt reflection on the show’s 30th anniversary, it made sense to make this more widely available as well. I have not changed anything from my original writing, except to add a few photos from that weekend.
I would only have a few seconds with them, and those seconds had to matter, to mean something – if not to them, to me. After a lifetime of devoted fandom that has only increased as I’ve moved out of the target age range, and after months of anticipation, I looked forward to walking through the autograph line, but with a sort of trepidatious anxiety. How could I convey depth of feeling and gratitude in one handshake and a few words? Soon it would all be over, they would be greeting the next person, and I would have lost my chance to tell them how much they had impacted my life.
It was the 20th anniversary of Adventures in Odyssey that was fast approaching. This now-popular kids’ radio program had announced a “birthday bash” to commemorate this momentous occasion, the highlight of which would be a live show in Colorado Springs featuring a dozen of the actors.
Almost as soon as the word reached me, I knew I would be going. Never mind that Colorado was a 16-hour drive away. I would get there one way or another, even if it meant carpooling with near strangers.
The live show was scheduled for August 16, and as the details slowly came into focus, I had no doubt that that would be the best weekend of my summer. What I didn’t realize – or, at least, not fully – was that it would be one of the best weekends of my life. Those “few seconds” with the heroes and giants of my youth, seconds that I both longed for and dreaded, turned out to be only a small part of the “Colorado experience.”
The trip started out as a cross between a family vacation and a pilgrimage. As my dad and I drove through Colorado, it seemed like every bend in the road revealed a new, breathtaking panorama. But even as I marveled at the sheer beauty of the lofty mountains and cascading forests – the likes of which were already near and dear to my rugged, Californian eyes – I was thinking about the greater wonders yet to come in that mecca of my heart. When we reached our destination, I was determined to make the most of our extended time in Colorado Springs. It was Tuesday. The festivities didn’t start until Friday night. I had plenty of time to play the dual roles of trigger-happy, camera-toting tourist and know-it-all, passionately-dedicated fan.
For two days, all was well. My family (the rest of whom rendezvoused with us at the airport) and I gazed admiringly at the Air Force Academy’s sleekly impressive chapel and celebrated my sister’s 18th birthday at an upscale restaurant and not-so-upscale ice cream place. Accompanied by the occasional familial disagreement and our customary bad habit of oversleeping, it looked like a typical vacation.
Until Thursday. That’s when the fabric of all my plans unraveled, and all my eager anticipation for the Pikes Peak cog railway and the Cave of the Winds suddenly became tepid. It all started when I entered Whit’s End. Whit’s End, the fictional ice cream shop, Discovery Emporium, and cornerstone of Adventures in Odyssey, is “a place of adventure and discovery…where kids, of all ages, can just be kids.” So says the owner, John Avery Whittaker (but you can call him Whit), who is not only the heart and soul of Odyssey, but also an inventor, writer, businessman, former teacher, and even government agent! Most important of all, however, this white-haired jack-of-all-trades has a deep love for God that permeates his every act, and endears him to both his on and off-air observers.
As I stepped into this should-be paradise, I tried to take it all in: the cartoon depictions of the characters that didn’t exactly jibe with my mental pictures, the three-story slide which I was just short enough to ride, and, of course, the ice cream shop itself with its black-and-white checkered floor and World Famous Chocolate Sodas – an Odyssian favorite more affectionately referred to as a WodFamChocSod. However, though it put up a good fight, this representation of Whit’s End didn’t come close to matching the one in my imagination, at least partly because most of it had been designed for the show’s pre-adolescent fan base. But I wasn’t deterred. After all, I hadn’t come to Colorado Springs for the buildings, but for the people.
That evening, I was sitting in the hotel lobby, playing card games with a few fellow Odyssey fans, when a bus pulled up outside. Before I quite knew what was happening, the semi-quietness had been replaced with bustling activity, laughter, and animated voices. But these people weren’t your average hotel clientele. I recognized their voices. Hidden from view, we breathlessly watched all the goings-on up front through a double-sided fireplace. Eventually, we left the safety of our hiding place to more conspicuously gawk at our favorite actors and their families. Too scared to even think of approaching them and too excited to sit down like rational hotel guests, we stood silently, rooted to the spot.
I was positively dumbstruck, especially when, shortly after, I found myself being introduced to and shaking hands with Will Ryan, Katie Leigh, and Dave Griffin. Will Ryan, who plays the lovable genius Eugene Meltsner, did his best to make small talk with us, but, despite his friendly, casual demeanor, we weren’t the best conversationalists. Even when faced with such speechless fans, however, Will carried the conversation with his questions and witty remarks, often laughing at his own jokes and puns. He had vibrant blue eyes, a natural, easy smile, and a youthful energy that belied his 60-something years. His clothing was just as relaxed as he was, and a cowboy hat completed the image of this acclaimed, highly-versatile voice actor mingling with college-age fans in a hotel lobby.
“Where do you go to school?” he asked, turning to me.
“Indiana,” I replied timidly.
“Oh, do you go to Ball State?” he asked, admitting that that was the only Indiana school he knew of, thanks to David Letterman.
“No. Taylor University.”
“Oh, are you going to be a seamstress?” he asked, already chuckling before I responded with my own nervous laughter and the remark that I “hadn’t heard that one before.”
Our conversation couldn’t have lasted more than five or six minutes, and at the time my mind was such a jumble of excited fragments and adrenaline-laced instincts that the reality of these extraordinary moments had only begun to sink in. As if these one-on-one interactions weren’t enough to overwhelm my already-overloaded senses and emotions, later that night, after their first rehearsal for the live show had ended, Dave and Katie joined a larger group of us fans back in the lobby. Members of an online community called the Town of Odyssey (the ToO), we had all known each other for at least two years via the internet, and most of us were meeting each other for the first time.
We all sat in a misshapen circle, and there we stayed into the wee hours of the night. At some point, I became acutely aware of how exhausted I was, but it didn’t matter. There was no danger of my nodding off, and no chance in the world that I would be any other than the last to leave this unprecedented gathering.
Dave Griffin, who had voiced Jimmy Barclay – arguably the most popular and endearing kid character on the show – is now all grown up with a family of his own. However, because of the writers’ surprising decision to keep Jimmy on the show even after his voice changed, Dave still has the “Jimmy voice,” even though he, like most of the other actors, is older than the character he portrays. What stood out to me the most about Dave wasn’t his long hair or his impressive juggling skills, but his earnest desire to meet and talk with us, and his joy at re-entering the world of Adventures in Odyssey – a world he had reluctantly left more than ten years ago, but which still held claim to his heart.
And then there’s Katie Leigh, who has played perpetual teenager Connie Kendall from time immemorial. If there is any actor whose real-life persona mirrors that of his or her character, it’s Katie. Like Will, she is friendly and quick to laugh, and her bubbly gregariousness is infectious. As she and Dave reminisced about the show and exchanged anecdotes, I greedily hung on to every word. These are the kind of priceless moments one never forgets.
Saturday was the day for paranoid fears and an almost panicked urgency for everything to be just right. At least, that’s how it started out. I wasn’t in line early enough, I wouldn’t get a good seat, I would be mute during the autograph line, in the very moments when speech meant everything, and, heaven forbid, the two buttons would somehow be pressed on my camera that would erase my prized picture with Will Ryan!
This was the event of all events, the one that puts so many others to shame and that I have been unconsciously moving towards all my life. IT MUST NOT GO WRONG!
Much to my great delight, I happened to be visiting others at the front of the line when the curtains parted, the doors opened, and I happily spilled into the auditorium (dubbed the chapelteria) with the horde of humanity. My downfall was waiting for my family before deciding on seats, and by then the closest and the best had been snatched up by the more decisive. After an agonizing evaluation of my priorities, I deserted my family (with their blessing) and found my excellent seat.
First was the recognition of all the different age groups who had all converged in Colorado Springs. That was when the silly grin settled on my face. I was proud to stand with the 18-30-year-old crowd as a veteran listener, a lifelong fan, a lover of all things Odyssey. And then, they were here: Katie and Will, Dave Madden (Bernard Walton), Aria Curzon (Mandy Straussberg), Chris Anthony, Jess Harnell (Wooton Bassett), and Chuck Bolte (George Barclay).
I had listened to the episode “New Years Eve Live!” a few weeks before, and for the first time had tried to put myself in the place of that live audience, to imagine what they would’ve seen and reacted to. As invigorating as that experiment was, my imagination didn’t hold a candle to real life.
In no particular order, here is a cryptic list of some of my favorite moments: the “quack, quack,” any reference by the actors to the “Foley guys,” Mandy and the slide, George Barclay’s vacuuming-off, “rashonmyfoot,” Whit’s surprise appearance, Eugene and his ukulele, and the not-so-surprise guest stars: Dave Griffin, Genni and Donald Long (Lucy Cunningham-Schultz and Jack Davis), and Sage Bolte (Robyn Jacobs). I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed applauding this much. From this chronic critic of the slapstick style of BTV episodes, I must say that I will forever cherish and laugh along with myself every time I hear this show.
My parents enjoy Odyssey, and they have patiently listened to my long monologues and passionate praise of Odyssey over the years. They rarely offer their own insights on the show, however, so it was refreshing and inspiring to hear them talk and laugh about how much they loved the live show, how hilarious and better-than-expected it was, and especially the more specific parts they pointed out. My dad was particularly excited when he found out that Bernard had in fact been Reuben Kincaid on the Partridge Family: “Bernard is my hero” and “what would Bernard do, and what would Eugene say?” were two of his (and my) favorite phrases. He also told me how glad he was that he’d chosen the live show over the Pikes Peak Ascent. How there could be any competition between the two is beyond me, but then again, I’m not the runner of the family. My sister also gave the show a rave review.
I laughed so hard during some of the interview questions that my camera jerked in all directions, distorting the already-poor quality of the video. Still, I have Dave Madden’s classic answer to the question of how he is similar to Bernard, some of the father-son banter between Dave Griffin and Chuck, and Will and Katie’s reminisces of Hal Smith, the original voice of Whit. What I don’t have on camera will burn brightly in my memory, or replace the less-distinct remembrances with a general warm and fuzzy feeling. I’m content.
We found ourselves near the end of the autograph line, but I didn’t mind. When we saw the sign that said “only two items per family,” my mom was worried about the ethical dilemma of getting our planned three items (knocked down from five or six) through the line. The solution? Two separate households, of course! I managed to make it through the line without acknowledging the others… even though I realized later on how unnecessary that was.
True to form, my interactions with these giants of my childhood and teenage years consisted of a few squeaked-out remarks like, “I really like Bernard,” “Can I get a picture?”, and “How’s your hand doing [after all the autographing]?” (to Dave Griffin). Will Ryan got one of the “Can I get a picture?” lines, and he, of course, obliged me… only to ask afterward if I would like a picture with him! “Really?” I sputtered, thrilled and speechless as he asked my dad (who was still pretending not to be my dad) if he would take the picture. When I looked at the picture later, I was excited to discover an Easter egg: Paul McCusker, writer extraordinaire, who had been standing behind Will, had poked his head into the frame! This was truly the picture of pictures (just as this was the event of events), and when I was thanking my dad profusely later on, he joked about how angry I would be if the picture hadn’t turned out. Perish the thought!
I watched the rest of the autograph line sift through, and it was such a beautiful, peaceful scene. The smiles and the warm interactions that these tired stars had with their fans was amazing to watch. I could’ve stood there all day and waited for the second show to end, and for its patrons to walk those same steps. At one point, Paul McCusker sat down on the couch I was standing next to, but I lacked the courage to approach him. I waited for the last of the stragglers to make it through the line, then watched as the cast filed out. They were still smiling.
Five hours had passed since my frenetic worrying, and I couldn’t get rid of my dazed, dream-like, overwhelmingly happy state of mind, nor the way it spilled over onto my face and out of my mouth. Nothing could knock me over. No, I didn’t wax eloquent in the autograph line, and I didn’t capture everything perfectly on camera, but it was special. It was mine.
Saturday morning and afternoon was the crescendo, the insurmountable, the most epic point on this most epic trip.
At least, until that night.
Tipped off by Dave Griffin that there would be a final pow-wow in the hotel lobby that evening, I moseyed on down just in time to join the equally-minded party of ToOers. The news that the actors would soon be returning to the hotel quickly reached my ears.
“They’re exhausted. Don’t approach them,” Sarah cautioned. “If they want to talk to you, they’ll approach you.”
Her words made what happened next so much more special. They did approach us, and talked with us as if we were old friends. Never mind that they had spent hours that day performing and signing autographs for us. Never mind that they had early flights the next morning. Never mind that we were just a bunch of fans. Jess’s impersonations, Chris’s fascination with the ToO, Aria, Don, Genni, Dave…
After the hubbub died down and some of the actors had returned to their rooms, Katie and Will came back down with popcorn. A simple gesture; unspoken selflessness. They owed us nothing. If there were any debts to be paid, they were on our side.
Summoning my courage, I went up to Will and told him that Eugene was my favorite character. We ended up talking for more than an hour. Well, he did most of the talking. And then, as the night wore on and became morning, those of us who could afford to lose the sleep held out as long as we could, unwilling to end this experience of a lifetime.
Of the thousands of fans who journeyed to Colorado Springs to celebrate twenty years of Adventures in Odyssey, more than 99% of them only got the handshake, the smile, and those precious few seconds that I had been bracing myself for. I was in the other group – a fact that still overwhelms and humbles me two months later. To say that my expectations were exceeded, or to try to breathe new life into those overrated words “best” and “favorite,” or even to grab hold of words, phrases, adjectives, metaphors, analogies… it’s not enough. It can’t possibly be enough. You had to be there.
It is 113° in Redding, California, and the Carr Fire continues to burn, destroying boats at the marina and buildings to the west, and filling the sky with ash and smoke. Those who haven’t been forced to evacuate stay inside to keep from breathing it in.
Blood-red skies and flickering horizons bring perspective, especially if it’s your family holed up in a motel hoping their home is still their home at the end of it all.
As all fires worth knowing about tend to do, this one leapt out of control quickly. As far as I know there haven’t been any casualties at this time, but there are no guarantees.
A week ago, I dreamed that I died. It wasn’t a dream of monsters chasing me, but it felt as real as those nightmares often do. I was in the liminal space between death and life; time had stopped, the time had come, and I was about to find out what really happens when you die. I only knew it was a dream when I woke up, and then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“Have you ever almost died?” It’s a question that surfaces on social media and road trips, and like others I have stories I dust off for just such occasions. Those of us who haven’t gotten nearly as close as we think we have laugh about our near-misses, but it’s only a temporary reprieve. I am a future dead girl.
Those who were once living wrote about beautiful and terrible places in their sacred books, but whether they have gone to those places, I don’t know.
We will all die, but we don’t like to talk about it, except in the wispiest of language. Maybe that’s why we love stories of resurrection so much. In fact, I’ll be telling one myself soon, with my fancy editing tools, and with my body. The camera will find me lying on a table, still and gray, then it will move close to my face, and, just as we planned, I will open my eyes.
Ten years ago, I thought it would mean everything to see my favorite voice actors on a stage from a distance and in an autograph line for a moment. But that didn’t mean everything. The greatest gift came when they gave their time in hotel lobbies and conference rooms, letting us witness their own reunions with each other, and inviting us into their lives.
And if you know my story with Adventures in Odyssey, you know how the gifts kept piling up: gifts of time, of words, of moments, of remembrance, with these very same voice actors, and with others who work with them, others who love them.
June 17, 2018, wasn’t August 16, 2008, but then again, it couldn’t be.
Other than those Adventures in Odyssey actors, there was never really anyone famous I wanted to meet. Well, there was one. If he ever came to town, I knew I would pull out all the stops to be there, but it was a dream I didn’t think would come true. But then he did, and so did I.
It meant the world to me to meet David Tennant at Denver Comic Con. He is every bit as lovely and generous with his fans as I hoped he would be. I stood at the front of the second overflow line for twenty minutes, which meant I had a clear view of him shaking hands with people and listening and signing bits of cloth and paper. And I saw the looks on those people’s faces when they walked away. It was beautiful to see his commitment to being fully present to hundreds of people, even though he would never see them again.
Memories are still beautiful even if only one person will remember them, but they are also bittersweet.
Celebrity is a strange thing. How much we will pay for 10 seconds of conversation, or a greeting and a flashbulb that gives us a glossy photo to pin to the wall. How much I paid for these things, and how I kept grasping for ways to be remembered: a clever word, spoken; a hundred words, written and given.
But there was not enough time, or words, or moments, or remembrance. This is how it is. But I still couldn’t help repeating our conversation to everyone who would listen, in hopes that I would remember every word. And I can’t help the tears in my eyes now.
It’s only natural to want to meet someone whose work has made its mark on us, whose art has tapped into something deep inside of us, or even someone whose life seems to overflow with goodness. We feel like we know them, and we want to meet them and tell them why we are different people because of them, but we have only seconds, and we are not fully ourselves for even those seconds, because we are weighing every word, we are starstruck, we can’t believe it’s really happening.
There’s not enough time, I thought while driving home, in the throws of an emotional hangover. There’s not enough time. And then I realized that I wasn’t thinking about my favorite actor anymore.
I am saying goodbyes now, as I prepare to move to New York in a few days, but I am in denial. I am giving a clever word, spoken; I am giving a hundred words, written. These are the words that matter most. David Tennant is a wonderful person, I’m sure, but he has people who are actually in his life to tell him this. He doesn’t need my card, even if it does encourage him. He doesn’t need my wit, even if it does amuse him.
But the time, the words, the moments, the remembrance, matters so much more when they are shared, when they are building a house for both parties. When we can be fully ourselves. When it is up to us to speak life into the person across from us, because they are our loved one, or because they are one who needs love, or both.
I treasure the memories of those flashy days, those once-in-a-lifetime handshakes, but they aren’t the only beginnings to celebrate. I most want to remember the beginnings that led to middles of new faces becoming familiar and small talk lengthening and days turning into nights and all the while we are together still.
There’s not enough time.
June 17, 2018, wasn’t August 16, 2008, and neither of those days was the one when I drove to the northernmost reaches of Denver to attend a meet-up group, or the one when I was one of two people to bring strategy games to a party-game gathering, or the one when I braved the snow to visit the nearest house church. But then again, they couldn’t be.
Sometimes, the real thing is so full of glory that no matter who is telling you about it, or how, the glory will seep through. This is that sort of thing, where nothing earnest can be misrepresented, where even the blurriest picture will cause us all to gather around.
I fill my arms four times and carry food and suitcases and books to my room. I know there are mountains outside, here in Snowmass, Colorado, but it’s too dark to see them. I stack my books high, and there are too many for one pile.
This is the day after Easter, or rather the night, and the Retreat House is empty except for me. Everyone came for Holy Week, and the second of April isn’t Ordinary Time, but it seems it may as well be to everyone else.
I fill my journal with the past and the future, with remembrances and visions. I truly pray for the first time in a long time. And as I fill in the rocks and plants and other features of a labyrinth in my coloring book, At Play in God’s Creation, my eyes fill with tears, and the decision I had come here to make, and indeed thought had been made, turns into grief and I let myself grieve.
It isn’t always the story about the story, but it sure seems that way to me. I awaken to dreams and hopes, and then I fall asleep and sleepwalk through the grid laid before me. And then one day, when the sleepwalking starts to take a nightmarish turn, I wake long enough to remember and cup my chin in my hands as I take in the beauty in the distance, the beauty I could be a part of.
I want to come awake long enough to do good in the world, a good I can sustain because it bubbles up from the truest, deepest parts of me.
I only leave the Retreat House for Vespers (I thought about going to Mass, but I don’t know whether or not I’m allowed to take the sacrament, so I skip it). I try to take in the details of what I see and hear, not just what I feel. One monk sits on a cushion. Blue jeans poke out at the bottom of their robes, ending in sandaled feet. Sometimes I turn to the right page in the book and can follow along, but sometimes I lose my place and can only listen.
The services end in darkness and quiet, but the silence is not absolute. The monks greet us on the way out, and I find myself shy.
I meet Sarah and Pat at Vespers, and they invite me to drink tea with them in their hermitage, a separate guest accommodation. It is the best tea I’ve ever had, a tea that actually tastes as good as it smells. And we talk about wistful things and tangible things, wise men and meaningful stories and standing in unfrequented spiritual spaces. And I know I am talking about my life as I wish it to be, my time as I would like it to be spent, not as it is.
We only have so much time in a day, time to decide what we will fill ourselves with and what we will spend ourselves on.
I pad across the thick carpet and lay on the floor of the Prayer Hall. The low lights make wondrous shapes and so do the wooden beams far above me, and the silence is deep. I take pictures and I walk back and forth, alone and at peace.
I feel like I am on holy ground. On my way out, I stop at the bookstore and pull objects to myself, trying to bring this place with me: a book about this monastery, a CD of Gregorian chants, beeswax candles, cards made of pressed flowers that aren’t perfect in form, but are perfect for having been made here.
I keep craning my neck to see Mount Sopris, and looking hungrily in the rear view mirror. The mountain was before me three days ago when I was arriving, but in the dark I hadn’t known, hadn’t seen. And now I am stealing glimpses as I come down off the mountain.
Two years ago, I flew to Nairobi for a dear friend’s wedding. It would be a whirlwind trip with only five days on the ground in Africa, my first visit to this continent. I would spend three days meeting Gracie’s new Kenyan family and friends, frosting cakes, and, finally, putting on a red dress and curling my hair to be bridesmaid. But for those first two days, I would take a bus to Mbale, Uganda, to meet Brenda and Remmy, my sponsored children.
My flight arrives late evening, and I only get a few hours of sleep before I have to get up to catch the bus. We drive as close as we can to the station, then make our way through the crowds, Gracie and her fiancée, Ken, seeing me safely on the bus before leaving.
I take one of the closest seats to the door, the stairs down and below my feet, the sun destined to bake me through the windows once it has fully risen. I am carrying two child’s backpacks, each stuffed with toys and school supplies and toiletries, along with my own clothes and my camera. I am bringing no books to read, only my journal and nine Advent cards with a picture on one side and a one- or two-sentence reflection on the other.
The day wears on, the sweat accumulating on my back and at the bridge of my nose. I see zebras on the side of the road once, and monkeys, and an egret and a cow lying down nose to nose. Short trees cover the oh-so-green rolling hills, and plots of land are marked as “NOT FOR SALE.”
I order the beans and chicken everyone else is ordering when we stop for lunch, and I struggle to understand the heavily accented English around me.
I catch snippets of bus announcements, and after a while, when the conductor mentions Kampala but not Mbale, I start to worry that I am not on the right bus. The conductor knows only a little English, so I call Ken on my basic phone, and he talks to the conductor, and then Irene, my local contact at the center, talks to the conductor, but the accents, rendered difficult in person, are nearly impossible for me to unravel over the phone.
Finally, I break through the communication barrier and learn that my first inkling was correct: We are driving north now, as we should be, but when we are still two hours from Mbale, the bus will not take that turn but will instead veer west, bound for Kampala.
I approach the conductor again with my phone, and after he speaks to Ken or Irene in their shared language, I press the phone to my ear, hearing all but understanding very little. I repeat this scene again and again, sometimes with another traveler instead of the conductor, and I piece together more and more of the plan we’re forming, while simultaneously second-guessing everything I think I know of that plan, worrying that no one else understands the situation as I do, that I will be stranded and forgotten.
But in between the phone calls, in between the stops, while this is still the road I am supposed to be traveling, I have nothing to do but watch and wait.
I see Kenya from my window, hundreds of people living their lives: Women selling potatoes on the side of the road, men sitting on the hillside while their sheep or cows or donkeys graze, children playing soccer and holding hands, people walking, walking, always walking. Sometimes, a child skips instead of walks, and my heart skips too.
When I’m not looking out the window, I pull out those Advent cards from the small cloth purse tucked in my bag. Today is day 7 of Advent, and today’s picture is of a full moon in a star-speckled sky presiding over a mountain range. A lightness at the horizon promises that night will soon end. Alicia Heater drew this picture, and on the other side, Cara Strickland wrote, “In my family, we set out the nativity scene on the mantel, without Jesus. The lonely manger reminds me that in this season we embrace waiting empty.”
I read and reread that card and the six that came before it, filling myself with pictures of small lights in the darkness, of snatches of carols and Bible verses about the Incarnation, of words about hope and waiting, memory and silence.
“‘Have you forgotten us?’ ask the Israelites. ‘Have you forgotten us?’ ask Zechariah and Elizabeth. ‘Have you forgotten me?’ I ask.”
I think about how I’m waiting for this long day to end, and how I forget about people in developing countries until they’re right in front of me.
We stop at the border near sunset, and the crossing takes hours, standing in lines in first one building and then another, filling out forms and getting my visa stamped, and then lots of waiting, milling around on the red patches of dirt, waiting for our bus and then waiting for our driver.
Night is falling by the time we start up again; I see very little of Uganda in the darkness.
We reach a busy intersection, and the bus slows across from a hotel. They are stopping for me. “This is it!” people are saying, everyone now aware of my plight, my confusion, my anxiety. I gather my bags and thank the conductor. A man walks with me across the street while the bus waits for him.
I sit in the dimly lit lobby, surrounded by my possessions, for another two hours. Others notice me waiting and offer to help, but I am now where I need to be. Finally, Irene arrives and we drive the rest of the way to Mbale. I can now relax. It is nearly midnight, and a trip I thought would take six or eight hours has taken 18.
I fall asleep in my fancy hotel room thinking about the kindness of strangers, and I awaken to palm trees and a fancy buffet breakfast and excitement.
I meet Brenda, a teenager on the verge of adulthood whom I have been sponsoring for more than 10 years. She is almost as tall as my 5 feet, 9 inches. I meet her mother and stepfather and siblings, and I see where she goes to school. She is wearing an ankle-length blue-and-black dress, and I recognize her immediately. I can tell she recognizes me too. She can’t stop smiling. She shows me old letters and pictures I’ve sent her over the years. She speaks less English than I expected, but someone is always there to translate.
For weeks, I didn’t know if my other sponsored child, Remmy, would be able to come. He is from another part of Uganda, at least half a day’s journey away. I was planning to mail him his gifts once I was in the country, but then I found out that they would be able to bring him to Mbale after all. He is here with Godfrey, a former sponsored child himself, and they also came on the bus. He is eight years old and shy and doesn’t smile for the camera at first, but eventually we bond over selfies, and he delights in taking pictures of everyone and everything with my DSLR camera. He is wearing a tan suit and dress shoes, but seems more comfortable, more himself, after he takes off the coat.
We eat a meal together, and the center staff share Brenda’s file with me, and then we take the van to her family’s house and I meet everyone. Remmy is there too, sandwiched on the couch between us and treated as part of the family. They open their presents, and then they give me presents I had not expected: a purse with black and white and red beads that Brenda made for me, and a letter from Remmy’s mother that means more to me than I can say. I wish I could have met his family too.
The day fills me up to the brim, worth every twist and turn it took to get here. Before I know it, I am waiting on the side of the road for my bus. Brenda and Remmy and I sneak in a few more pictures, a few more memories, and then the bus arrives and we say our hasty goodbyes.
The return trip is uneventful. I sit next to another American all the way to Nairobi. Through the night, I sleep and I wake and I cross back into Kenya and I sleep again. I am not alone and this time I don’t need my Advent cards to comfort me.
So many of my experiences with Christianity have soured, but the season of Advent remains sweet to me. I have a soft spot for “O Come O Come Emmanuel” and the candles and the waiting. I don’t know how much is true and how much is myth in the traditional Christmas story, but somehow, for a few weeks, I’m able to suspend my cynicism and let my heart expand in the darkness.
Advent has never been more special to me than it was that December in Africa, and especially that day when all I had to keep me company were those cards, when I was waiting in the unknown and could only gaze at the pictures and the words and think about all the others who have also felt lost and forgotten.
“Did you know that Lizzie used to work for Focus on the Family?” he said, she said, with a gleam in their eyes.
It’s not a secret, my internship from last decade, but it doesn’t come up often. When it does, though, it’s a conversation starter, a newsworthy item for my friends to pass along. I don’t fit their picture of someone who once worked there, you see.
Even at the time, I didn’t really think of myself as working for Focus on the Family (FOTF). I was there for Adventures in Odyssey; nothing else at the organization held much appeal.
Adventures in Odyssey (AIO or Odyssey for short), Focus on the Family’s seminal children’s radio drama, turns 30 this year – today, in fact. On this day in 1987, a 25-minute episode aired about a boy named Davey who feels like a failure until kindly shop owner John Avery Whittaker (“Whit”) helps him realize his worth as they invent something that goes wrong before it goes right. The story, set in the small, Midwestern town of Odyssey, is bookended by a skit with the show’s host, Chris, who tells a story about Abraham Lincoln to reinforce the theme. “Whit’s Flop,” that very first episode, aired one year and four days before I was born, and all my life the show and I have been moving in tandem toward our own milestones.
Can I say I like Odyssey but not Focus on the Family, as I would say I like Jesus but not Christianity?
No, I didn’t think so.
It’s a poor comparison anyway. Odyssey was birthed from Focus on the Family and, like it or not, is a product of its parent organization. Jesus, however, wasn’t always entangled in Christianity, especially not Christianity as we know it today. But that’s another topic for another time.
I do know that I’m not the only one who has been able to partition the two, approving the one and rejecting or ignoring the other. A college roommate was vocal about her dislike for Focus on the Family, but made an exception for AIO.
Even when I was jumping at the chance to be an intern for my beloved radio drama, back in the day when I believed what everyone I knew growing up believed, I was still taken aback by the interview question asking “what my opinions were on the five major issues most important to Focus on the Family.” I bumbled through the answers I knew they expected of me, without much thought as to whether they were really my answers.
Lately, it’s gotten harder to separate the AIO from the FOTF. But once upon a time, it was just Odyssey tapes, Odyssey at 4:30 on the radio, Odyssey before bed and on car rides, and, later, Odyssey on message boards and at events. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
From its earliest days, Adventures in Odyssey has employed some of the best and most versatile voice actors in the business. This is not hyperbole. The show’s main actors include (or have included) Hal Smith from the Andy Griffith Show, who also lent his voice to Beauty and the Beast and An American Tale; Alan Young, best known as Wilbur in Mister Ed and as Disney’s Scrooge McDuck; Will Ryan, featured on The Adventures of Teddy Ruxpin; Katie Leigh of Totally Spies; Chris Anthony, the former voice of Barbie; and Jess Harnell with his hundreds of film credits, including Wakko Warner in Animaniacs. These actors and many others have or had extensive careers, spanning decades, and it still chokes me up how many of these people have passed away since I first “visited” Odyssey. I have met many of the actors as an adult, but I was too late for some of them.
I once joined a Facebook group that probably doesn’t exist anymore, about how “Adventures in Odyssey was the soundtrack of my childhood.” I didn’t grow up with Saturday morning cartoons or Boy Meets World or whatever else my peers were watching in the ‘90s. Odyssey was a cozy backdrop to my life, but it was just a backdrop in many ways, piping from the tape deck on the dining room windowsill while I would color and make lists and watch fat squirrels eat birdseed from the feeder in the backyard, filling my long-term memory and stealing my heart.
Later, I would discover Odyssey’s ability to keep me on the edge of my seat, I would get up early on Saturdays to catch the new shows, I would pull out my old cassettes with stronger feelings, I would catch the pop culture references that had once eluded me. Still later, on the verge of college and the verge of leaving Odyssey behind me, I found a fan message board, and everything dormant and untapped in me found its home and sprang to life.
In 2008, my first visit to Colorado for the 20th anniversary live show became one of the best weekends of my life. I met the actors, the writers, and fellow fans, many of whom I’m still in touch with. In 2009, I spent my summer interning for Odyssey and administrating the above-mentioned message board, and then returned to college and promptly started a club for fellow fans. We made video reenactments and went on a road trip to Colorado and even brought one of the main actors to our Indiana campus to speak in chapel.
This was the zenith of my love for the show, and my nostalgia for that time of my life is matched only by my nostalgia for the show itself.
I was never on fire for Jesus, not really, but I was on fire for Adventures in Odyssey.
Life seems a simpler place when you know what you love and you have ways of expressing that love.
I wouldn’t go by “Lizzie” now if it weren’t for the show, and I might not be living in Colorado. I might not have changed my major to media communication or worked in radio or spent three months in China or done a whole host of other things. Adventures in Odyssey helped me keep my head above water in times of deep depression. It brought about friendships that never would’ve formed otherwise, leadership roles I never would’ve accepted. Directly and indirectly, I have Odyssey to thank for so much joy in my young adult life. I will never forget this. To me, Adventures in Odyssey is much more than the sum of its dialogue.
And it was a dream come true to meet the people behind the voices and the people who wrote and directed and made magic with sound, to work with them in some cases, to go behind the scenes, to know and be known. They are lovely people, thoughtful and professional and funny.
As for the episodes themselves, the writing quality ebbs and flows, as it does in any long-running production, but I’ve found a lot to appreciate: How to craft a story arc, how to tell a story with sound, how to move forward when the actor who plays the main character dies suddenly.
I haven’t listened to any new episodes for a few years. This is partly because the aura of nostalgia is missing with the newer shows. Every semi-reboot has sawed off more of the glue binding my fate to the fate of the show, which I suppose is only natural when the child grows up but the show does not. I am also skeptical about any program’s ability to carry on indefinitely and still remain a high-quality production. The longer I listen, the more déjà vu I experience.
When I was younger, I hoped Odyssey would still be producing new episodes if and when I had kids. Now, if I ever have kids, I would want them to listen to some episodes but not others.
You see, I am not only out of the target age range, I am also out of the target ideology range. The segment of Christianity that AIO is a spokesperson for is one I am no longer a spokesperson for. I used to think Odyssey was good at avoiding denominational squabbles and sticking to the basics of the faith. However, because this show and its parent organization focus on conservative evangelicals and conservative evangelicals focus on them, it’s a narrow list of squabbles that are avoided, a narrow list of “basics” that are adhered to. Christianity has many different expressions, interpretations, and practices, but you wouldn’t know that from listening to the show.
In this make-believe world, the conservative Christian worldview and its applications have no baggage, no side effects, and no viable alternatives. All the characters are so nice and well-meaning, their faith clean and tidy and straightforward. There are some episodes that show a cognizance of the things we do not know and that hold certainty loosely, but the farther I get from my “on fire” days, the fewer stories I see, past or present, that do a good job managing that tension. More often than not, it’s oversimplifications and assumptions, and even though I find it’s usually lines here and there that trouble me rather than whole storylines or episodes, those lines add up.
This is not an “open letter” or a rant. I am not going line by line through episodes to point out everything that makes me cringe now. I know everyone is doing the best they can with what they have. Odyssey has gotten better over the years at portraying more diverse characters, more diverse families, but I still see room for improvement.
I have deeper problems with Focus on the Family as a whole, of the choices they make politically and the ways they choose to engage culture and the world. Their pictures of the ideal world or family or culture are not my pictures. When I listen to AIO now, I notice things I didn’t notice before.
Sometimes, though, I am noticing good things. I recognize how a three-part mystery from the mid-90s is all about championing differently-abled people. I am moved by unflinching stories about the Underground Railroad and the Fisk Jubilee Singers. I appreciate the nuanced handling of subjects such as forgiveness, doubt, and grief. I go on everyday adventures with the characters as they take vacations and learn how to drive and fall in love. I go on extraordinary adventures with them as they solve decades-old mysteries and foil the bad guys who want to take over the world. And the best of the Bible story adaptations capture a glimmer of why Jesus is so appealing to so many people.
I can’t help it. I will always love Adventures in Odyssey, even when I have trouble liking it. Whit and Connie and Eugene, Tom and Bernard, Jack and Jason, Jimmy and Donna and George and Mary, they all feel like real people, real friends and family members, even when they fight, or maybe especially when they fight. I’ve seen the same warmth and camaraderie in the recording studios as I see in what comes out of those studios, that sense of connection that we all long for, and this is perhaps the epicenter of my nostalgia.
I would like to think that if these characters became living and breathing people, they would not fall prey to the us-versus-them polarization rampant in our country today. I would like to think that I could have a conversation with Whit or Jack, that, despite our differences, we could sit down over milkshakes for a heart-to-heart, and they would really listen, and by understanding more of the Other with our heads and our hearts, we could change the world a little at a time.
When I first watched my skydiving video, I couldn’t help but cringe a little. Even now, I find myself wishing for the removal of some frames and the addition of others.
The angles aren’t great, I stick my tongue out at one point, and I’m gaping and gesturing like a child. I’m embarrassed that I’m embarrassed, because isn’t it enough that I went skydiving and it was magical?
I want to control the way I look when I’m feeling a lot of emotion, or at least control how I look in the images meant to capture that emotion and carry it out into the world. I want to look open but not too open, happy yet composed, and please no awkward facial expressions or ugly crying or anything else untamed, unkempt, unhinged.
But the most moving photography of humans captures the real, raw moments. I have rarely seen such unbridled joy on my face as I did during the freefall, but I find it hard to see the beauty, to be moved by my own childlike, unmitigated wonder. I worry what others will think, that they will laugh or be uncomfortable, that I will laugh or be uncomfortable and miss out on every re-experience of Magic.
I wasn’t worrying about it at the time, but I was worrying in Alliance, Nebraska, a few weeks earlier. This was the day of the total solar eclipse. I wasn’t worrying about how I looked, but I may as well have been.
It’s hard to capture a moment and still remain fully present to that moment. That’s why I didn’t even try to photograph the eclipse. But I did want everything to be just so. I was aghast that the people around me proceeded to talk through all of totality, that cameras were clicking and distractions abounded. I wished I were on a hilltop, alone. I wished everyone was reverent and solemn in the ways I thought they should be reverent and solemn. I wished to fall into a sun-trance, but I seemed thwarted by externals.
Sometimes everything comes together splendidly, and yet it’s not enough. We feel too much or too little, or we look like we feel too much or too little, or our attention is diverted just enough that we feel, somehow, that our experience didn’t count.
I can never, it seems, experience something just once and be satisfied. The high demands I place on Magic are hard to fulfill.
And yet, Magic, Magic is everywhere. I have always loved the true stories of breaking through what we thought were barriers of the natural world, of going beyond where we thought we could. Apollo 13 was the first movie I saw in theaters, at age 6, and in college I jumped at the chance to take a niche course on the Space Race of the 1960s.
I am thrilled to the bones, moved to tears, by stories of these explorers and risk-takers. In these stories, there is a First around every corner, one moment and then another of breathless anticipation and water in the eyes. I watch my own skydiving video and I attach it to the more dramatic music in the company’s promo video, I attach it to Launch music and Leaving Port music and every other song I can think of that bespeaks adventure, so that the moment when the song reaches its crescendo is my Moment of leaving the plane.
No video or picture I’ve ever seen has done justice to the magic of skydiving, the magic of a total solar eclipse. They say a picture is a worth a thousand words. Dare I believe that collections of a thousand words could be worth pictures?
You will remember the buildup and the aftermath, but will you remember the freefall?
I’m worried that I’m already forgetting what it was like to skydive. Skydiving is not like riding a rollercoaster. It is not like anything but itself. I watch the video of me, plucked from a handcam, plucked from the sky. I see big-eyed surprise and wonder, then joy, then contentment on my face, but in some ways it feels like I’m watching another person. Fear, too, makes it hard to remember what came after the fear.
But I remember enough.
“I’m going skydiving,” I would say, sounding nonchalant and confident. And I was nonchalant and confident, mostly. The continuum of fear, when so many continents and weeks lie in between, is barely a blip, makes it easy to sleep at night, at the beginning.
I do not sleep well, though, the night before. I writhe in the covers and chatter into the darkness, and even the peace of an alpine cliff top does not permeate.
Then the uncertain morning weather reminds me that nothing is inevitable, and after seven hours of working myself into a lather of anxiety, I am not sure if I want the delay to be temporary or permanent.
Finally, I arrive at the hangar in Interlaken with sixteen other people from at least four continents, not including the one we find ourselves on. We put on blue jumpsuits, gloves, and then the straps around legs, waist, and shoulders that will connect us with our other halves. We lay on our stomachs on the floor and practice tilting, bending, gripping. We watch the experts look at the sky, and we exchange rumors, and we wait. I meet people from Australia, China, Saudi Arabia, North America. I become less nervous, even as I meet very nervous people.
One plane holds about a dozen passengers, or six tandem pairs, or four tandem pairs and a few “fun jumpers,” or some other combination of novice and experienced. At last, there is more blue in the sky than white, and the rain is over, and we are moving in Swiss Time again. I will be taking the second trip up. I wait more than half an hour, watching people leave one way and return another, looking at first for the black dots in the sky, and then the blues and oranges and reds and whites of the parachutes, and the numbers always match.
My other half, Dave, is a man of few words, a 25-year veteran of the skies, someone to ease all manner of worries.
I am first on the plane, which means I will be the last off.
My nerves crackle to life again as we assume our positions on board, as I pass through the door that will open again at 13,000 feet. It is me and a handful of American college students, now suddenly quiet. I smile for the camera, I peer out the window and try to admire Lake Thun and Lake Brienz, the peaks Jungfrau and Monch and Eiger, but then we are practicing positions for the jump, then the straps that had been attached at takeoff are tightened, then I am given a pair of goggles to wear that instantly fog up.
And now we are above the clouds that have been teasing us all day. The light goes on, the light that turns from red to green to tell us that The Time Has Come. The door opens, and each pair scoots to the edge for their Moment. There isn’t much time before my turn, only seconds. Not long enough, or maybe too long.
We move to the edge of the plane, the gaping hole, and I am being moved by someone else as much as I am moving myself. I know I won’t drop prematurely, we won’t leave the plane until he and I are ready.
It is not “jumping” like walking to an edge and moving my body into empty space.
I am compliant, somewhere between active and passive. For this to happen, I must walk and then crawl to a point, and then relinquish my semblance of control. I do not see where I will go, but I know where I will go.
Knees bent, hands gripping the straps at my shoulders, head tilted back, and I am ready for the freefall. I won’t see when he lets go, but I will feel it. There are a few seconds of hanging, of waiting, and then we fall.
We are upside down, but then what is upside down when you’re tumbling toward the earth? It isn’t as scary as I thought it would be.
I was afraid my heart would be in my throat the whole time, a mighty lurch, a reenactment of the falling nightmares everyone has, that I would have an iron grip on my straps, the compulsion to scream away my fears, because that’s what it would be like if the drop tower amusement park rides reached 13,000 feet into the sky, hellish Towers of Babel that really climbed into the heavens. Would I be breathing heavily and laughing nervously at the end, round-eyed and shaking and only glad it was over?
It’s not like that at all, not for me.
Skydiving is not 0 to 100 mph in seconds. You are on a plane, as you have been on many planes before, and then you make a directional shift, your horizontal journey becoming a vertical one. It is gentler on your insides that you would expect.
My heart jumps a small jump, then settles. I might be screaming a little, but if so the sound is lost in the wind, the wind that ripples my cheeks and whips my hair back and makes me grateful for the gloves. The world stretches out beneath me, more breathtaking than any concrete-sky jumble at amusement parks, and I have the thrill without the fear, or at least with only a low-grade sort of fear that tapers off. After a few seconds of holding my shoulder straps, I can let go, and then I am smiling big, arms outstretched. We are parallel to the ground. We might as well still be flying. I posed for the camera in my pre-interview, on the plane, and later after the parachute opened, but I was not posing during the freefall.
We are even with the clouds now, level with white and blue and the yellow glow to the west where the sun will set in an hour or two. Close at hand are mountains with ribbons of snow, and others, farther away, that are full white and glorious. And below, getting bigger and bigger, is a carpet of green, grass green and tree green and blue-green, and it is hard to look anywhere other than down.
And then it’s time to slow down, after 45 seconds or forever. I’m jerked into a sitting position, and now I’m cruising along the sky, mountains now in my line of sight, conversation now possible. The dipping and spinning Dave now commences reminds me that it’s been entirely too long since I’ve had anything to eat or drink, and my stomach isn’t as strong as it once was, but it all works out.
I’m not an extreme sports kind of person. I don’t like downhill skiing or snowboarding. I’m not a fan of climbing rocks or jumping off rocks, and my particular history makes me pull back even from water skiing. I’m not usually someone who takes upon herself feats that others fear to do.
But if there’s anything that can give me the courage to leave a plane mid-flight, in a foreign country and surrounded by strangers, it is a chance to be among the wildest of beauty. Switzerland is the most beautiful place I have yet seen. Mountains are the most beautiful things I can think of, be they near or far, be they towering above me or under my feet or on the other side of the sky. This is the place to be my bravest self. If not now, then When?
After gliding in to a smooth landing, Dave asks me if I would ever do this again. Half an hour ago, I thought this would be a one-and-done type of thing. I surprise myself with the immediacy of my Yes.
“I’d rather be scared than sick,” I always say when describing my lesser-of-two-evils at amusement parks. But for that glorious minute, while falling to the earth, I was neither scared nor sick.