Think time

Earlier this month, I took a quick trip to Denver to check in on my parents and hang out with people I love. It was a whizzer of a round trip, less than 18 hours. I was on borrowed time already, but it was late fall, the roads were dry and the sky was big. So I did what every self-respecting Wyomingite would do. I took the long route. 

I left Casper early in the morning and headed south, planning to go from Shirley Basin to Laramie, before hitting the maw that is Colorado. It’s peak visitation time in the Shirleys, where the hills are dotted with hunters. Barren ATV trailers snuggle into the shoulder, their occupants miles away, scouting and stalking their prize. There is something about watching hunters, barrel to sky, trampling through the high prairie’s shortgrass. They are in their best place, taking cover in scrub and sage, thrumming with life, hopeful of the trophy beyond the brow.

As I approach the ascent to the Basin, a force unknown presses me to the alternate road, County Rd 77. It’s the redneck route where the speed limit is a suggestion and the range is open, center line be damned. It’s a little reckless and a lot liberating. 

This is where the think time begins. First comes the hard stuff: itchy relationships, family drama, my mom sinking into her final chapter. I grate against the outrage du jour, the division swallowing every conversation, every headline. I fester over the latest cruelty from the pulpit at my beloved but former MAGA, I mean, mega-church. I wallow in the countless ways the Freedom Caucus is ruining our state. I grieve for both my faith and political communities, now indistinguishable from one another.

I pass blistered snow fences, their shards reflecting the brutality of our winters, a reminder of forces we cannot control. So many things to worry about; getting stuck in the middle of the Shirleys during a blizzard at night, no signal, no help. I worry whether my boys will find work in the state, wonder if they’ll choose to stay. I am perplexed by the Trump administration’s movement toward autocracy and our congressional delegation’s cowardice to stop it. 

Notably, of my many frets, I do not worry about sharing a bathroom or a community with someone who does not look like me, someone who, by the way, is made in the image of God. 

As I crest a hill, castled, bloomy clouds greet me where the bluffs meet the crystalline sky. I feel engulfed by and grateful for its comfort, this crappy road pulling me back from my dark thoughts. 

I look to the skies; this is where my hope comes from. Whatever is pure, lovely, admirable, that is what is before me now. 

Those of us in the faith community would tell you faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance for what we cannot see. It’s the closest we have to knowing, a simplicity for which Christians are mocked by some and admired by others. You choose.

There are so many things right in this world and our state. The lottery that brought my people to the territory of Wyoming. The luxury of raising my boys, free range, feral and surviving to tell the story. The opportunities my family has, because there are fewer of us, we had something to offer and were willing to work for it. I think of the access we have to our public servants, the product not of privilege and status, but because they are our neighbors. 

It is those relationships I cling to, the idea that we can still talk to one another, if the opposition is brave enough to meet us away from their keyboards, eyeball to eyeball. 

The succor of this road gives me clarity. Now back on the main road, I see the town of Medicine Bow in the distance. The town alights with promise, which says everything about my trippy drive and nothing about the realities of this town. I don’t care. I see opportunity in this day, hope for the next and space to figure it out. 

Back to reality, I cruise toward Laramie, where my boys and I eat burritos and discuss, among a host of trivialities, the most efficient technique for blowing milk out your nose. Perhaps the most meaningful moment of all. After lunch, we hug, tell each other we love one another, and they set off to class. 

I head to Denver, my yoke now easy and my burden is light. 

We are all going to be okay.

Susan Stubson serves on WyoFile’s board of directors. Neither she, nor any other member of the board, have the authority to direct or determine coverage.