When God Writes Your Story
The bickering from the backseat couldn’t dampen my good mood. We were setting off on our one and only family vacation for the year, taking our six- and three-year-old kids on a weeklong camping trip. It wasn’t quite the Disney cruise I’d dreamed of, but we had a good tent, a great campground, and my stubborn determination to make it an Instagram-worthy vacation.
Adventure awaited!
And waited. After eight long hours of driving through Georgia, we finally made it to the cool mountain air. Except the air wasn’t cool at all. It was 109 degrees. The record-breaking heat wave that drove me to walk my young children into the beer cooler at the gas station was relentless.
No matter! There was a beautiful mountain stream to splash in and a shady barnyard to explore. The kids had a blast, and I got some great Facebook documentation of our potential as future farmers. We held bunnies, chased chickens, petted horses and goats, and even milked a cow! Our first day at camp was exactly as I’d envisioned. It was definitely hot, but we were pushing through. I planned to end the day with the perfect night: showers, s’mores, and “Kumbaya” around the campfire.
We could smell the bathhouse before we even got close. An apologetic sign informed us a water main had broken and there would be no running water for two days while it was being fixed.
Two days of no flushing and no showers for people living outside in a massive heat wave. Throw in some barnyard animals for flavor, and it was a recipe for a smelly disaster.
As we lay sweltering in our tent that night, the first roll of thunder hinted at a bit of relief from the heat. I couldn’t wait for a gentle mountain rain to wash everything clean. When the lightning became like a strobe light and the wind seemed determined to rip the tent to shreds, the kids started screaming. I came close to joining in.
The storm calmed just before sunrise and a beautiful, cool day dawned. The glorious sound of flushing toilets greeted us on our walk to the bathhouse. Showers loomed on the horizon! It felt like a new beginning to our vacation. At this point, I wondered what else could possibly go wrong.
After a lovely day of hiking and exploring, it was finally time for the cozy campfire night I’d envisioned. We got the kids settled, and I headed back to the bathhouse for a long, hot shower of my own. I was lost in a few self-congratulatory thoughts about how the day had gone when I rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a bear.
An eternity stretched before me in those few seconds as I frantically tried to remember what a professional camper should do in this situation. Was I supposed to play dead? Should I run and scream? As I hyperventilated, frozen in place, the bear glanced in my direction, clearly bored, and continued lumbering up the trail. I was convinced it was lurking somewhere, waiting for me to show fear so it could pounce. Much to the certain amusement of any onlookers, I decided the best course of action would be to run backward all the way back to our campsite.
That night, as I lay on a leaky air mattress and my bladder screamed at me for not being brave enough to venture back out, hot tears of defeat soaked my sleeping bag.
I was learning the hard way that I’m not in control of anything, no matter how much research and planning I do. Our vacation story was not turning out the way I had written it in my head. The sooner I let it go, I realized, the sooner I would begin to enjoy the story God had written for us.
We ended up making some fantastic memories that week. We learned to work together. We learned about patience and flexibility. We learned to let go of pride and comparison. Drooling over the Facebook photos of a friend’s luxurious Caribbean cruise might not be the healthiest activity when you’re sleeping on the ground and you haven’t showered in two days during a record-breaking heat wave.
God used that trip to remind me his plans for me are best. Even when I can’t see it or understand what he’s up to, he’s writing a story for my life, and it’s not supposed to look like hers or his or yours. The experiences my family shared were just what we needed.
Ashley Doyle Pooser is a wife and a mom of three. She recently moved to Atlanta, where she’s trying her best to be a responsible adult but feels like she’s mostly flying by the seat of her pants. She blogs at ashleydoylepooser.com.
