The Trail

There are a couple of camps just outside of Fremont. In high school my youth group would have retreats there, and we would go walking on the trails down to the Platte River. I had always hoped that “someday” I would be able to take those hikes with my husband. This weekend I finally got my wish—sort of.

The weather was astounding. Quintessential Nebraska fall. A walk in the woods seemed like the perfect Saturday morning activity, except for one thing: the boys had both been sick, and Simon especially was not himself. As we loaded up the boys and drove to the camp (just a mile or so down the road from my parents’ house, where we had just survived a very rough night; I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that I don’t think any of us ever want to hear the words “pizza” and “hut” together again for a very, very long time), I sensed that Jason was not really looking forward to the walk but merely humoring me. I told him all about the trails, dramatically beginning with “ever since I was a little girl,” to try and warn him not to muck up my long-held dream of how it would go with a bad attitude.

He simply asked whether in my fantasy of hiking the magical trails with my future husband there were also two sick kids along. Um, no, can’t say that there were.

In the end, it was neither a mind-blowing wonder nor a complete disaster. The trail was pretty much how I remembered it, and Jason thought it would be good to come back when we’re all well. Simon refused to walk even a little bit, so Jason carried him (and can I just say, my husband is amazing). Ian slept on my back in the Ergo. We decided to turn back shortly after we buried Simon’s breakfast under a pile of leaves.

So we’ll try again next year (or maybe even later this year if the weather holds), and in the meantime I’ll continue to learn to be deeply grateful for my reality, even when—especially when—it’s a little different than how I pictured it.