Nate loved the horn on his car. Each evening as he arrived home, he’d toot the horn twice as he pulled up to the garage as if to say, “I’m home!”

A few years after that became standard, he added another set of toots when turning into the drive. And several years after that, he began honking as he rounded the corner onto our street. When I talked to him about it, he had no intention of stopping and said his goal was to get a horn that sounded out the notes of Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender.” Although he never accomplished that, the boys did buy him an air horn louder than a freight train and installed it under the hood, giving him the surprise of his life. He loved it.

All of Nate’s horn-blowing irritated me, partly because of the noise and partly because I thought the neighbors must be cringing inside their houses at the disruption on our quiet cul de sac. It was six unnecessary loud, long blasts each time he came home. But when I talked to Nate about it, he just laughed and said, “Everybody loves a nice horn.”

Tonight the girls and I will be sleeping in a luxurious home on Sanibel Island filled with wonderful relatives who welcomed us warmly. We talked of former adventures on this island when our two families used to rent houses next door to each other annually.

One fun memory of Nate brought enthusiastic laughter as we remembered how his horn-honking came all the way to Sanibel. The four younger girls, still in single digit ages, were out roller blading when they spotted an alligator crossing the road. These unpredictable beasts look lazy and low-key but can swivel around lightning-fast and snap their jaws with deadly force.

The girls raced back to our houses to holler for help. Just then Nate drove in with the day’s newspapers, right up to the alligator, and lay on his horn like never before with long, blaring honks that practically shook the stilts from under the houses. When the alligator paused on the road to look at the car, Nate considered that his go-ahead for further honking. In the end, he had to give up and back up, since the alligator refused to be intimidated. Eventually the reptile wandered into a nearby swamp and our girls were able to resume their skate.

Back in Illinois, I talked to Nate about his horn-honking repeatedly, asking him to at least cut down the frequency, but he never complied. Then one day as I was planting flowers with my back to the street, he blasted the horn and I jumped a mile. He didn’t mean to startle me and quickly got out of his car to apologize, promising never to honk the horn again. I didn’t believe a word of it, but he followed through. That very day the honking completely stopped.

The Bible is full of blaring horns, and God instructed people to make noise with them when leading troops into battle, when fighting, when announcing victory and when celebrating afterwards. Trumpets and rams horns were used in worship and in making joyful music combined with other instruments. And when God decides it’s finally time for time to end, he’ll assign angels to blow horns just before each judgments occurs.

Because Nate is now with the Lord, its possible God has assigned him horn-honking/blowing as part of his heavenly service. If the Lord asked for volunteers, I know Nate’s hand would have been waving wildly. I hope he’s having an absolute blast!

”Make music to the Lord…with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn. Shout for joy before the Lord, the King.” (Psalm 98:5-6)

The girls and I are singing “On the Road Again” en route to Florida for two reasons: (1) a second visit to seven week old Micah, 20 month old Skylar and their parents, and (2) a few days on Sanibel Island with Mary and Bervin. Their two youngest girls and ours will revel in exploring the island on rented scooters, as well as spending refreshing time on the shelly beach.

As for me, a Cyclops-lookalike with a colorful goose-egg, I’ll be on the screened porch waiting for my battered face to quit oozing. The doctor said, “No sun for you, unless you want half of your face to absorb an extra amount of ultraviolet rays and become permanently stained.” I already look like Two-face, the deformed villain in Batman’s “Dark Knight” and don’t need that.

As we packed and loaded up this morning, doing all those last-minute chores before departure, I realized anew why my widow warrior friends have told me they like to stay home. After walking through months of unknowns getting used to widowhood, these women are tentatively holding onto shreds of a new routine when suddenly it’s time to break stride and leave on a trip, yet another unknown.

In addition, widows like to pass their days where their husband used to be and sleep where he used to sleep, maybe even in his t-shirt. Going too far away for too long becomes tense and unsettling, causing mourning to be set aside for a few days, which elongates the process. It’s always waiting upon return.

Despite these stresses, the girls and I are looking forward to a dose of tropical weather after this sad, snowy winter, and my broken toe will be happier in flip flops than in shoes. Once again my magnanimous sister and husband are providing for us in a special way, offering bedrooms at a restful resort, urging us to come. Without them, we wouldn’t go.

Our road trip was interesting today. I’ve learned what it feels like to be the object of gawkers. “Don’t stare,” one mom told her little girl as we waited in line for the gas station bathroom. Most are sure I’ve been battered by an angry man and show compassion. One woman saw my face and lovingly said, “Oh honey, let me help you into the store,” rushing back to open the door before I got there. She had all she could do not to embrace me. When I saw another little girl with a scab on her face staring at me, I smiled and said, “You don’t look as bad as I do,” but she turned and ran.

Louisa did all the driving without complaint, and the girls walked the dogs as needed. Compared to traveling with little children, we had it easy. I just hope when we connect with Skylar tomorrow afternoon she doesn’t take one look at Grandma Midgee and go screaming to her daddy in terror!
”The Lord, before whom I have walked, will send his angel with you and make your journey a success,” (Genesis 24:40a)

Today started out exceptionally well. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and I decided to take the dogs to the beach early. I’ve been babysitting for Jack’s cousin-dog, Sydney, for a couple of weeks. The two of them work like a team of miniature ponies, each appreciating the other.

I rode my bike while the dogs ran enthusiastically through nearby trees and dunes. Fifty white seagulls were a springy surprise at the beach, since we hadn’t seen them since last fall. The dogs dutifully cleared the area, chasing them into the sky.

Although the sand was like concrete after temps in the 20’s last night, the scene was striking, each rock sparkling with a thin layer of ice. But all three of us were wearing heavy coats and spent an hour walking the water line, appreciating the visual feast of wild waves and glistening dunes. I filled a Zip-Loc with spectacular stones but wondered how I’d get them home on my bike.

Each day as we fly down the road toward home on the back side of a dune, the dogs cooperate with biking etiquette, running parallel with each other and me. But today, as we were speeding downhill at a fast clip, Jack suddenly broke stride and made a sharp turn in front of my bike without warning. Our collision stopped the bike cold and tangled me in the front wheel as the bike and I tumbled down the hill to a stop.

In that split second before my face hit the pavement, all I could think of was my bag of rocks perched on the handlebars, hoping I wouldn’t lose them. Looking up, I saw the dogs racing side-by-side as always, chasing the reason for Jac’s abrupt turn, a red-tailed squirrel.

I sat up on the pavement to assess the damage, which didn’t seem too bad. But the rock-baggie had split, scattering my treasures everywhere. As I was debating what to do about it, I saw my cheek begin to get in the way of my vision, and blood was dripping on my coat. Thankfully I had two tissues in my coat pocket and used them while riding the rest of the way home.

As today’s hours have passed, my body has “described” to me exactly what happened, yelling about two toes, three fingers, two knees, four teeth, one back and my prize-fighter face. Finally, at Mary’s urging, I agreed to go to the emergency room. Compassionate next door neighbors donated six hours to the cause, chauffeuring me to the hospital and bringing me back home afterwards, along with three prescriptions, a water bottle and a warm blanket.

After arriving home with a broken toe, torn tissue around one knee and a “developing” face, my mind was flooded with reasons to be grateful. Despite an eye full of sand and gravel, my eyeball wasn’t cut. I’m also glad Jack wasn’t hurt and that my bike still works. I’m grateful my neighbors were home and willing to give so generously of themselves, and I’m thankful Nate didn’t see this face. If he had,a lecture would have been forthcoming for sure.

Jack, Sydney and I were planning to load the Highlander and head for Chicago to spend tonight with Louisa and Birgitta before the five of us began another road trip to Florida early tomorrow. But with only one eye looking through the windshield, I decided the girls should come to me instead. I’m thankful to have capable drivers willing to clock the 1400 miles to our destination while I chill out doing other things in the back seat. As for my rocks, I’ll go back in the morning to gather them up.

Today I’d had the perfect Plan A with a well-ordered to-do list, but God had pre-arranged a Plan B. And in his plan, I found many reasons to be thankful.

“The Lord will work out his plans for my life—for your faithful love, O Lord, endures forever.” (Psalm 138:8)