ODE TO THE BIG WHITE VAN Circa: 2007

Hi.  I’m a van.  A big white one at that.  And I’ve been given the privilege of writing to all of you this Christmas season.  For one, I’ve been at the center of all the 2016 family adventures, so it just seemed appropriate.  Secondly, I’ve had a pretty big year: I’ve been vandalized, become insta-famous and been to the beach.  AND just the other day I got pulled over.  Big happenings, big happenings. 

Before I get started on 2016, though, I’ve got to reminisce just a little and travel back in time.  I will never forget that cold, blustery day in 2007; I had just spent two weeks on the road traveling all the way from sunny California to Louisville, KY to meet my new owners.  I sat in the driveway on Lanfair in front of a two-story colonial brick home, wondering why this family had bought me.  Up to this point I had been a rental van driven for business use.

Suddenly, a slew of children came running out of the house towards me screaming like a bunch of wild Indians.  You would have thought that I was a Corvette or something.  They jumped in, so excited to pick out their seats.  The oldest child, who was eight at the time, quickly and proudly chose the very back seat.  Little did I know that one day that eight-year-old would be driving me…

It took me a while to become adapted to this new life of transporting these young children and their countless friends.  Many drinks and crumbs were spilled upon my once clean grey carpet.  Not only was I thrown up in and cried in, but their mother—the main driver of me--was just a wee bit near sighted.  She backed me into a car, two different poles and ran up on several curbs.  The years sped by and the miles stacked up, as I drove to Boston, NYC, Chicago and Florida.  Just as I was getting settled into Louisville, we upped and moved to Paducah.  No more interstate and thick-traffic driving for me!  Now it was all about rural roading and deer dodging.

And in a blink of an eye, that eight-year-old had his license… At this point, I had over 170,000 miles to my name.  I was becoming quite decrepit looking and most owners would have put me to rest.  But one person’s trash is another one’s treasure and this 16-year-old found me intriguing.  Maybe it was the fact that I’m from California that we hit it off.  Mostly, though, I think he liked that he could drive around a large number of friends all at the same time.  At first the parents wouldn’t let him drive me.  I was completely OFF LIMITS.  But as he got more experienced and gained their trust, they began to give in little by little.  I mean, let’s face it.  If I got into a tangle with another vehicle, I most surely would win.  I’m kind of a bully like that.

My first big outing with my young driver was taking a group to Homecoming in 2016.  It was such a hit that I was allowed to chauffeur a group to prom.  These excursions just whetted the palette and soon I was in high demand.  The summer of 2016 will go down as one to remember.  I may look like a white carton of milk on the outside, but my teenage driver really knows how to channel my inner Bentley {Soap Box Rant: Just for the record, most big white vans are not creeper vans.  I’ve been categorically judged all of my life; on behalf of all my fellow big white vans, please get to know us before you judge us. Okay, back to the story.}  I went on a day trip to Kentucky Lake and saw bison for the very first time.  I went bowling in Illinois and watched fireworks on the Ohio River.  However, the van rides cranked up a notch when my teenage drivers bought me an aux cord.  This is when things got serious {some of you may have noticed the plural word ‘drivers’.  Yes, teenage Grogan driver #2 had now entered the scene}.  What a life, driving around #vanbabes and jamming to the latest hits.  Clearly, though, my best moment had to have been when some friends from Louisville came to visit and I was called a chick magnet.  That’s when I achieved a status like no other white van in history.  Right around this time was when my Instagram account came into being.  I was living the dream.

Once school started, my teenage drivers (A Senior and Junior, respectfully) made me the official McCracken County Pep Van.  I attended all football tailgates and games and was given special parking privileges.  My roof was used for such things as bull-horn special announcements and couch sitting (yes, I once drove around the parking lot with a couch on my roof).  After one heated football game with a rival school, some not-so-nice words were written on my hood.  However, it was impressive to see the amount of people who called and texted from our rival school apologizing on behalf of this student.  It gave everyone pause to remember that a game is not worth getting heated and all worked up over.  The event caused the presidents of both school’s pep clubs to meet half court at the volleyball game the following week and shake hands before the game.  In a strange kind of way, I was able to bring these two schools together. 

With fall break quickly approaching, my young drivers begged the parents to drive me to Gulf Shores.  Well along in my years, I was a risky choice.  But after some serious praying and a week at the shop, I was a go.  Driving south down the interstate felt like old times.  I was footloose and fancy free.  It was a great week of cruising the beach strip with #vanbabes.  I held up well until the last two hours of our trip home.   That’s when my age finally caught up with me.  My engine died thirteen times between Nashville and Paducah.  It got to be kind of funny, having to pull over to the side of the road and start me back up.  Daddy Grogan would start me up and take off as fast as I would let him so that when I died again they could cruise at least two or three miles before pulling over again.  We were all extremely grateful to pull into P-town that night.  I immensely enjoyed what was most likely my last trip out of the state of Kentucky as currently I am probated to local area roads only.

I barely had time to recover from fall break before I was decorated up as the Mystery Machine for Halloween.  Fred drove me around town and to a local haunted house along with Daphne, Shaggy and Velma.  While that was a good time and all, it doesn’t even begin to stack up to what happened next.  I was entered in the Paducah Christmas Parade.  Clark Griswold—my new nickname for my Christmas-crazed teenage driver—decorated me as Rudolph, sporting large tree limbs decorated with Christmas lights out of each front window.  I also had a lighted wreath on my hood (acting as a nose) and lighted reins (ropes) hanging off the back of me with #vanbabes holding them and walking along behind.  Buddy the Elf stood on my roof, yelling many of his favorite quotes, including, “THE BEST WAY TO SPREAD CHRISTMAS CHEER IS SINGING LOUD FOR ALL TO HEAR!”  While my lights went out within the first five minutes of the parade and I looked a bit redneck, I still somehow managed to win third place!  I received $100 and a giant trophy that I proudly display in my front seat.  I am still wearing the lighted wreath attached to my hood, ducktape and all.  I’m quite sure that my festiveness had something to do with Mama Grogan getting off with a warning for rolling through two stop signs recently.

For a Big White Van, I’ve lived a full and long life. It’s been one unusual and engaging decade wrought with adventure. While I doubt that this happens, Griswold’s dream is to wrap up my decade of life by taking me and a van full of friends out west on a two-week trip after high school graduation. Word on the street is that they would drive me by day and sleep in me at night under the open sky. Of course, the issue with my engine dying every so often would have to be fixed, but there’s been talk of creating a Go Fund me page. <-- Mama Grogan says that idea is not even the least bit funny and DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT. For the record, though, I think a visit to my old stomping grounds would make for a great 10-year anniversary trip, don’t you?

So this is the part of the letter where I take everything you’ve just read and create some kind of life lesson to ponder and bring us all back around to the real meaning of Christmas.  You might be wondering how a big white van could offer up any type of deep thinking philosophy.  However, being on the road gives me lots of opportunity to reflect on things.  And hauling young people around gives me a window into their souls.  What I’ve noticed this past year is how consumed we’ve become with image making.  I’m the perfect example of this.  I mean, I’m a van and I have an Instagram account!  Have you ever contemplated how much time we spend snapping images of ourselves in the form of ‘selfies’?  Then, we perfect our images with filters and such in hopes that others will gaze upon us and be impressed.  We post our images to pages we have created about ourselves in hopes that they will result in more followers and more likes.  Have you ever considered what the word ‘image’ actually means?  Webster defines it as: a visual representation of something: as (1): a likeness of an object produced on a photographic material (2): a picture produced on an electronic display (as a television or computer screen).  Interestingly, God’s ten commandments start with these words in Exodus 20: 3-4a: “You shall have no other gods before me.  You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. You shall not bow down to them or worship them (emphasis mine).”

Now don’t misunderstand me. I am not suggesting that Instagram, FB or Snapchat in themselves are wrong. The danger is the amount of time we spend doing it. How we spend our time will always indicate what images or idols we are bowing down to. God’s Word tells us in Genesis 1:26 that He created us in His image to reflect Him. He sent His son to this earth in the form of a baby many years ago to save us from ourselves. To save us from our self-absorption and our self-consumption. When we turn to Jesus and put our hope and trust in him, we become His image bearers. Being His Image bearer means we are Christ followers who reflect Him with the hope of attracting others to Him and not ourselves. But are we more consumed about having our own followers than we are about being a Christ follower? Are we more concerned about the wording of our tweets than we are about the reading of His Word? Are we more concerned about building ourselves up to please men or building others up to please God? Do we live for an audience of One or a virtual audience of thousands? Little devices that can fit in our back pocket have become the norm. But should our preoccupation with them and ourselves be the norm? Has this preoccupation become so big in our lives that there isn’t any room left for Him? Wow, for a van I just did some serious preaching :)

To close, I just want to thank the teenage drivers in my life for seeing the opportunity in me.  They could have easily been embarrassed of my ugliness.  They could have focused on the fact that I’m a bit of an eyesore.  Instead, they chose to take what most would see as a lemon and make some lemonade.  They turned trash into a treasure and now we have a year full of unforgettable, crazy memories.  This is what Jesus does for you and me.  His forte is taking our junk and rubbish and transforming it into something beautiful.  He looks for the unlovely and the ordinary, the lowly and the average.  He’s not interested in the Mercedes and the Cadillacs of this world who have it all together and can basically drive themselves.  He searches out those who are willing to open their hood, admit there’s a problem and allow Him to do some tinkering.  He wants those who will belt out some Carrie Underwood over the speakers, move on over to the passenger seat and let Him take the wheel.  May you sit back in 2017, let Him do the driving and enjoy the ride.

Sincerely,
BWV
@thebigwhite_van

P.S.  Owen wants all of you to know that you can rest easy cause he’s planning on taking me over in 2024.

The Middle Pages

For the past three years of our morning school routine, Owen and Jeremiah have always been in Phase Three.  You see, every school starts at a little different time and each child is in one of three time phases.  Phase one, is our 6:45 lone middle-schooler departure.  Phase two, is our high schoolers, Joshua and Sophie.  Bringing up the rear are the two littles.

I have always loved this time I get with Jeremiah and Owen.  Some people talk about cherishing the time with their children that comes right before bed time.  For whatever reason, this 'cherished time' for us is in the morning.  While they eat their breakfast and I pack their lunches is when we tend to have the best conversations.  But the last 10-15 minutes that we spend outside playing while waiting for the bus is perhaps the most treasured of all.  

They go through different phases of what that playing entails.  Sometimes, it's Knock Out.  Other times, it's soccer or baseball.  Right now, the sport of choice is Ping Pong.  

Sometimes, I will play against them (they find my skills wildly funny).  But most of the time, if I haven't gotten to do so already, I read our faithful kids-version 'Jesus Calling' out loud to them while they ping and pong.  Then, we take turns praying out loud as the ball bounces back and forth (I'm teaching them to multi-task, an art form which their future wives' will be ever so thankful).  Though before you get visions of Kum-ba-yah in your head, let me just shatter that for you right now.  It's disjointed.  It's often interrupted.  And I'm quite certain they're not always listening.  And some mornings when Owen announces he forgot to do some math problems or science homework, we are doing well to just not miss the bus.  

As disjointed and imperfect as it is, though, it's special because it's OUR TIME.  It's consistently a time we have, just us. 

Jeremiah likes to remind me on a very regular basis that this is his last year in Phase Three.  Next year, he will be going to middle school, leaving Owen all by his lonesome.  "Mom, this is my very last first day of school at Concord."  "Mom, this is my very last second day of grade school ever..."  

Wes loves to announce almost daily:  'Guess what, Mom?  Next year you'll have three kids in high school.'

They find extreme joy in bringing these facts up often.

I am someone who has a hard time not thinking about the approaching end.  For example, when we go on vacation, I get depressed on the first day because my mind keeps reminding me that the last day is just around the corner.  When I'm reading a super great book, I get depressed as I get closer and closer to finishing it.  I just don't want it to end.  I want to stay right there in the midst.

Maybe some of you can't watch Hallmark commercials.  I can't watch the social media posts of everybody's children going off to college.  It tears me up every single time.  I don't even have to know you that well to be a goner.  

These days, as I watch the ball get pinged and ponged, you can probably figure out what goes through my mind:  I've got a Junior and a Sophomore.  Next year, we will have three in high school.  Who am I kidding?  Owen and Jeremiah--they're basically almost in college.  

And my stomach goes in all sorts of knots and inside I fall into a heap.

And that right there is the angst.  The rub.  It's that tug in your heart that you feel as a mama, wanting to be able to stop time and just be.  But we can't.  We have to change and adjust with each passing season.  

So friends, tread lightly.  I realize that Joshua is just a year away from his senior year and that everyone is scheduling their senior pictures NOW, but give this mom some time to relish the middle pages.  To adjust and prepare for the final chapter.  

It's Friday but Sunday's Coming!

I remember it vividly.  The season after my mom passed away.  I was so angry.  I was angry about the entire situation, the chaos that had surrounded her death, all the things that went wrong and the fact that she had died.  I felt empty.  Life seemed meaningless and futile.  I felt betrayed by God and in my anger I just wanted to shake my fist and walk away.  I was standing at a crossroads of belief.  I could either choose to keep traveling with God--whom I wanted to yell and scream at--or I could choose to say, 'Good Riddance!' and go it alone.

As I wrestled with this, I heard God say very loud and clearly to me: 'Faith is choosing to follow me even when you don't feel like it.  It's choosing me when everything isn't rosy and beautiful.  It's choosing me in the bleakest of days.'  

My questioning, my crisis of belief, brought me face to face with Hebrews 11:1 and 2 Corinthians 4:18:  

'Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.'  and 'So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.' {emphasis mine}

Faith.  Defined as 'strong or unshakable belief in something, especially without proof or evidence.'  The word I had tossed around so arrogantly and casually before.  Now I was having to decide if I could truly walk it out down to the core of my being.  

I did not end up walking away that day.  Instead, I ended up choosing Him, even though I didn't feel like it.  I chose Him because I knew in the deepest place of my soul that not choosing him would have been even more despairing.

I read something this morning that sums it up well:

'Desperation is better than despair.  Remember, our faith did not create our desperate days.  Faith's work is to sustain us through those days and to solve them.  Yet the only alternative to desperate faith is despair.  Faith holds on and prevails.'

I let my faith hold on that day and in the months to come, it prevailed.  God showed up in the smallest and most mundane ways--in ways that a passerby would have missed.  In ways that only spoke to me.  Sustenance for my soul, it was.  Just enough to keep me going and trudging on when I didn't feel like it.  Day in and day out, holding onto that faith applied salve to my wounds.  Little by little, it solved the seconds and the hours. 

Today.  Today we celebrate what we refer to as Good Friday.  The day that Jesus was nailed to the cross and died a horrific death.  Had Jesus' disciples been told on that grey, dismal afternoon that one day this ugly, chaotic day would be referred to as Good Friday, I'm quite sure that they would have found that absurd.  The day their Teacher, their Rabbi, their best friend whom they loved dearly, had died a brutal death?  Are you kidding?  What 'good' could be found in that?

You see, they too, were in a place that many of us find ourselves-- in circumstances that feel anything but good.  Circumstances that, in and of themselves, just downright stink.  Situations where we can't see a sliver of silver lining.  Just like us, they couldn't see past the moment.  Past the darkness.  Past the death.  Past the tomb.

We're told that hindsight's 20/20 and it's ever so true.  Had the disciples known on that bleak afternoon that Sunday was coming, maybe Friday being called Good would have made more sense.  While Jesus had tried to prepare them about all that was about to take place, they didn't have the slightest understanding or know-how to actually comprehend it.  That is, until after. 

After--when the tomb was empty.  After--when Jesus rose from the dead and appeared right in front of their eyes.  After--when they finally had eyes to see and ears to hear.  

Sunday came and with it came victory!  Grace cancelled out effort and work-based religion.  Life overcame death and despair turned to hope.    

Just like the disciples, we may find ourselves stuck in the darkness of Friday and not able to see the glorious light of Sunday.  In our Friday moments, we have to consciously choose to believe that Sunday is coming.  The dawn of a new day.   

I suppose this is what I did so many years ago after my mom's passing. I chose to take hold of faith even when I didn't necessarily feel like it.  To hold God's hand rather than go it alone.  To say "It's Friday, but Sunday's coming!'

Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Hebrews 12:2

When obstacles and trials seem like prison walls to be,
I do the little I can do and leave the rest to Thee,
And when there seems no chance, no change, 

From grief can set me free,
Hope finds its strength in helplessness, 

And calmly waits for Thee.'

In the Darkest of the Dark

My friends.  My friends have walked through the unimaginable tragedy of losing a child.  They have literally been down to the depths of hell and back.  It's been a few weeks since the funeral and now--life goes on.  It goes on for all those around them.  It goes on for their two younger children.  It goes on for them even.  They get the excruciating task of walking forward and doing the normal things in life when life is anything but normal. They are left with a huge gaping hole in their heart that can't be fixed.  Yes, God will and is beginning the healing process, but it will be slow going.  While the pain will diminish over time, nothing will ever quite be the same.    

I've had the privilege of being up front and personal, of being right in the eye of our friends' storm.  I've had the honor of watching our friends cling to Jesus in the center of their trauma.  Here's what I got to witness of my mama-friend:  years and years of personal Bible study and prayer coming to fruition right in front of my eyes.  You see, for years and years, day in and day out, my friend spent time getting to know her Father.  She spent time in women's Bible studies.  She spent time in prayer.  She and her husband made it a habit to take their family to church.  This was not just one portion or compartment of their life.  It was the center of their life.  And when she found herself in the eye of a storm one Thursday afternoon, guess what kept her from being swept up?  The One whom she'd spent all those countless hours with, day after day, year after year.  The One who knew her before he laid the foundation of the earth.  The One who knows what she needs before she knows she needs it.

Those days and days of spending with her Savior.  They were training camp.  They were strengthening her for such a time as this when He knew she'd need to recount all those promises she'd studied in His Word.  For the darkest hours of the night when she would need to cling to Him.  The past four weeks I have literally watched my friends be a pillar of strength.  I have watched their foundation stand strong and not topple.  I have witnessed a house built upon the Rock and not upon sand.  I saw an inner strength and ability within them that wasn't them.  I saw my mama-friend grab her friends' hands in the darkest hours and not ask for prayers, but lead the prayers.  I saw her husband lead her and himself through difficult decisions and then gather up friends and family and explain things with strength and clarity.  Minute by minute, God has sustained them.  He gives them what they need when they need it.  He even gives them glimpses of His glory that emboldens them to trudge through the muck and mire of the present.

These days, I worry about the generations behind me.  The generation that has grown up amidst the cell phone technology.  Those that have never known what life was like unplugged.  I worry that they aren't learning how to be quiet and listen...to read God's Word and let it truly saturate their minds and thoughts.  I worry that they're not adequately experiencing training camp, that they're not putting in the time that it takes to build spiritual muscle, the time that it takes to build a sturdy foundation that will not topple.  I worry about all of us, really, how we are letting every inch of our lives be filled with activity and movement.  We have lost the art of being still.  Being still and truly knowing our God.  With each distracted moment, we are allowing our spiritual muscle to atrophy.  We are letting it get weak and flabby.  And weak and flabby can't withstand the weight of catastrophe.

One day, for each of us, adversity will strike.  It's not a question of if.  It's a question of when.  When that happens, I want to be like my friends.  I want to know God so well that I cling to Him like a well-worn blanket, full of familiarity, safety and warmth.  I want His promises and words to invade my mind as naturally as my heart pumps my next breath.  

My friends.  My friends are going to make it--not because of their own ability or strength, but because of their God's.  They are going to make it because they are resting in the shadow of His wings and they are tapping into the one and only source that is able to supply what they need, exactly when they need.  He enables them to run and not grow weary, to walk and not be faint.  He promises to never, ever leave us or forsake us, even in the darkest of the dark.  

I find great comfort in that.


"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them,  for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."  Deuteronomy 31:6

“Therefore everyone who hears these words of Mine and acts on them, may be compared to a wise man who built his house on the rock. 25“And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and yet it did not fall, for it had been founded on the rock. 26“Everyone who hears these words of Mine and does not act on them, will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. 27“The rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and it fell—and great was its fall.”  Matthew 7:23-27

"Those who trust in the LORD will renew their strength; they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not faint."  Isaiah 40:31