The Road North

"And I had blessings, a moment of peace even when the night ends,
yeah, the blessings, will we meet, will we meet again..." ~Dar Williams

Route 45 starts for me in Buffalo Grove, a northern suburb of Chicago. It's where I work, and what I leave behind on the occasional Thursday evening, if only for the night. On the occasional Thursday evening I close up the office where I work as a writer, buy a pack of smokes, and rather than head south toward home, I continue north on Route 45 into Wisconsin.

Of all the people in my life whom I still see regularly, I've known Debby the longest. We met in German class, freshman year of high school, and bonded in a very stereotypical girlfriend sort of way – quickly and completely, with no judgment or boundaries for our confidences. Nineteen years, five kids, several marriages, and countless jobs and moves later, the friendship has come closer, even if our residences haven't. I live in the same suburban town where we met. Debby runs a jewelry shop near Madison.

The Atlantis Restaurant is about halfway, and Route 45 North, starting (for me) in Buffalo Grove, ends there. Although it starts in the suburbs – stoplight after stoplight, strip mall followed by fast food joint – Route 45 soon becomes the rural route typical of southern Wisconsin. Miles of smooth curving road connecting tiny farm towns, with nothing but gravel and the occasional run-down motel in between. Peaceful. As the stoplights become silos, the tangles of the workday unsnarl and become yesterday. The nothingness of the surroundings becomes the necessary nothingness of the evening ahead.

The restaurant itself is non-descript – it's every Greek-owned restaurant anyone's ever been in. But the people here seem to be regulars, seem to know each other. Single senior citizens, nuclear families, middle-aged couples, a few bikers. Oh, anyone you see anywhere. And Debby and me.

And somehow a couple of hours in a non-descript restaurant seems to make up for the months since the last time we had a couple of hours. Somehow we fit in the catching up, the girl talk, the favors, the celebrations. One Thursday evening, Debby brought a portable jewelry cleaning kit and, sitting at the bar, washed everything I had brought with me. I’ve looked at her store’s advertisements over cocoa. She once brought me a teacup from her home for my collection. I’ve passed on too-small baby clothes.

But mostly what we do is talk. It’s what we’ve mostly done no matter where we’ve lived, or how often we’ve seen each other. And we talk about whatever girlfriends talk about – but as we’ve grown older, we’ve seen our conversations move from discussions about ourselves, our clothes and our friends, to our jobs and our men, to our money and our children. And then to our God. To our spirituality. And back to ourselves.

Deep down, Debby and I have very similar beliefs, values, priorities, and in many ways it’s no surprise that we’ve been friends for almost two decades. We’re both mothers first. We believe in the same God. We both like to sing, we read voraciously. We even come from similar families of origin, complete with their unique dysfunctions. But in the visible, as well as private, ways we express and nurture our spirits, we are very different.

Debby is an artist, a jeweler, and has been married for ten years to another. They live on a large non-working farm with three children, a dog, and a foreign exchange student. Debby is a full-time homemaker, and a part-time jeweler, business woman, public relations expert, and foster mother in a language she’s never studied. Their income is sporadic – when pieces sell, they sell; when they don’t, they don’t.

But everything they require is in that farmhouse, and in that shop. All of their needs are met, and living with Debby everyday is full faith in God’s promise to provide. Her letters and e-mails all end with affirmations and thanksgivings, both solemn and whimsical – “Work for the Lord, the pay is lousy, but the retirement plan is out of this world!”  

And, too, Debby’s spirituality lives solidly in her belief in psychic wisdom, that some people have a stronger connection to the universe and its secrets. And in her belief in spirit guides – she feels them, hears them, takes comfort in the tangible knowledge that her life is already planned. The awareness that things have already been set in motion, and that her decisions have already been met with God’s approval.

I, on the other hand, am the single parent of two daughters, living in a residential area near my mother. I work for Corporate America, volunteer my writing skills across the country via e-mail, and am just barely keeping one houseplant alive. My income is pretty consistent; I know exactly how much is coming and when, and what I can spend it on. My schedule, too, is carefully planned: I’ve taught the same Sunday School class for seven years, I’m active as a Toastmaster, and I’ve recently added “Girl Scout leader” to the hats I wear. Unless I’m at church, I rarely talk about my faith, in e-mails or otherwise.

But, then again, I, too, take comfort in knowing that God has mapped my life out for me, and this soothes me when I fret about things past or things still to come. While I don’t seek the wisdom of psychics, and I don’t feel a strong guiding presence the way Debby does, I have felt the power of the Holy Spirit in other ways. In the “peace that passeth understanding”, in the love of my children, in unconventional answers to prayer, in the joy of my church community.

I believe in guardian angels, and although my Christmas tree is covered with the Hallmark sort – lovely female cherubs with white wings – what I actually believe is that angels truly come in other forms: the neighbor who holds the school bus for a minute while you run out with your kids’ lunchboxes. The roommate who brings you dinner when you’re sick. The airline worker who makes you laugh after a long day. Or the friend who just listens. And listens. And listens. Completely, with no judgment or boundaries. Through nineteen years, five kids, and several marriage. At the other end of Route 45.