Okay, this is the last column about my recent trip to the Left Coast … probably. Unless inspiration forces me at gunpoint to write another one.
I realize you may feel like you’re being held hostage in a neighbor’s family room watching endless slides of their trip to Dollywood.
“And here’s little Frank Jr. on the log flume … and Aunt Gladys posing with the one-armed glassblower …”
I’m sorry, but as I confessed in my last column, when this homebody actually leaves home, all my observational hard drives quickly get maxed out. To make room in my brain for anything new, I have to download vacation insights somewhere.
Lucky you.
I want to tell you about one of the days we spent in San Francisco because God snuck up with a poignant and timely reminder for me in that unlikely place.
The only sites my husband and I really cared about seeing in the Bay Area were our son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter. But having traveled so far, we figured we might as well do a few touristy things.
In San Francisco, that means going to Fisherman’s Wharf, the historic waterfront area packed with shops, restaurants and unique street performers.
After surviving the drive into the city, we snagged a parking spot in a garage.
By the way, have you ever noticed how many BAD things happen in big-city parking garages on TV? Crime dramas have conditioned me to assume I will be mugged or whacked by a hit man if I ever park in one.
Happily, I wasn’t this time.
We made it out of the garage unmugged and fell in step with the huge crowds shuffling along the streets of Fisherman’s Wharf. It was a visual feast for people-watchers, so unlike my normal world I felt like I was in the cantina scene in “Star Wars.”
I can barely handle the Saturday crowds at Walmart, so this was a lot to take in. So many smells and sights, so much noise, congestion, and glittery body paint.
I was glad to experience it, and glad to stop experiencing it.
Next on our agenda was crossing over the iconic Golden Gate Bridge. After all, one must see it, so we did.
We then headed north to Muir Woods, a national monument area full of giant redwood trees.
At this point, our supremely adorable and good-natured grandbaby decided she was through being a happy tourist. High-decibel wailing ensued, just as we were starting up one of the scariest, skinniest, guardrail-deficient mountain roads I’ve ever been on.
I don’t do scary mountain roads well.
Lucy and I were both having fits—she because she was hungry and I because I was sure we were going to end up as a fireball at the bottom of the huge drop-off mere inches from my side of the car.
“Stressful” doesn’t even begin to describe it.
By the time we reached Muir Woods, we had all decided that seeing some giant trees couldn’t possibly be worth it.
But, you know what? It was.
We walked serene paths in this amazing refuge and the natural beauty was magnificent. The fingerprints of the Creator were everywhere I looked.
It then occurred to me that God had been every bit as present and powerful in the packed, peopled streets of San Francisco. Maybe even MORE there.
After all, those majestic redwood trees weren’t created in the image of God, but all the people at Fisherman’s Wharf were. Yes, even the guy with the dreads and silver body paint.
Out of all creation, human beings best express and most captivate the heart of God. Every last, weird one of us.
If I love what He loves, I’ll love them most of all.