Trying to Avoid Bend

Making baby steps towards healing and wholeness

It had been six years, but the long line of evergreens, standing as somber sentinels on both sides of the road, looked strangely familiar as we drove past them in the Oregon darkness. It was early March, and the freezing fog that swirled gracefully in and around their ghostly trunks and limbs gave them an eerie façade. At the same time, the manufactured piles of snow, higher than our car, plowed earlier in the day, which blocked our peripheral view and made us feel as if we were driving through a dark twenty-mile tunnel, gave us safe passage through Mount Hood National Forest on our two-day road trip to Arizona.

"I had forgotten about the trees." I looked over to Steve, who nodded in agreement. He had been navigating our next stop from the passenger seat with his phone.

The last time we drove through this stretch of deserted wooded highway towards the high desert town of Madras, we were on our monthly visit to Sebastian in Bend. However, on that hot August sunny day in 2017, thousands of other travelers were driving in the other direction, leaving this area, having experienced the best viewing of a total solar eclipse in the world. For a short time, Madras's population of 6000 swelled to about 100,000 as sun chasers, naturalists, hippies, and other adventure lovers descended upon this small town to experience the "path of totality" as the sun disappeared behind the moon for approximately two minutes. The United States hadn't seen anything like this since its founding in 1776.

We had spent that last weekend visiting Sebastian, talking about the eclipse he had experienced at the world's epicenter. He seemed to be doing well in rehab. And then he wasn't.

Sebastian died twenty days later. We hadn't been back to Bend.

***

I typed the directions on my computer: Driving from Vancouver, Washington, to Scottsdale, Arizona. I had offered to drive Isabel and Brennan's dog to their new apartment. They had lived in Arizona for six months, found jobs and a church, and lived in a place that took large dogs. Isabel had been waiting impatiently to see her white Great Pyrenees/Husky mix, named Jango, arrive.

Looking at the directions recommended by Google Maps, it would take us approximately twenty-one hours. We would drive 1,300 miles through Oregon, Nevada, and finally, Arizona to Isabel and Brennan's home outside of Phoenix.

But as I took notice of all the towns Google Maps had us driving through, we would have to go by Bend, Oregon.

I was still determining if I could make the drive, so I looked for other ways to travel to Arizona, trying to avoid that part of Oregon. California was an option, but recently there have been storms and flooding where we would have to go through that state.

I just couldn't go to Bend—too many bad memories. So I still avoided anything to do with Bend on all my social media. I blocked my friend's photos, the ones they shared of their stunning images of climbing Smith Rock, the epicenter of Sebastian's death by suicide.

"Maybe it's time to take baby steps," Steve gently mentioned as I lamented where our trip would take us.

"I don't know Steve. I vowed I'd never go back."

"I don’t want to go their either, but what if we leave Friday night after work." he suggested. "That way, we won't have to see anything in the dark."

Steve looked at the map. “We could drive to Prineville, Oregon, and spend the night. It’s forty miles from Bend, and we could avoid seeing that area in the daylight. Hopefully, we wouldn't see anything resembling Smith Rock.”

And so we drove through the dark.

But even the darkness couldn't stop me from remembering.

***

"Steve, the sign says thirty miles to Bend. Did we miss a turn? We can't go to Bend!" We had gotten through the snow-covered mountain and were driving in pitch blackness, with only passing cars lighting our way. I could see the direction of our windy road by the occasional light flickers from the headlights of approaching vehicles in the distance. Overhead, billions of stars twinkled and lit the night sky through our sunroof.

Steve looked up from the GPS. "We're not going to Bend. We're on the right road."

"Are you sure?" The clock on the dashboard read 10:30, and the temperature read 21 degrees. My nose was running and felt cold, my hands clenched the heated steering wheel, and my heartbeat sped up. "The sign only said Bend, not Prineville."

Steve placed his warm hand on my thigh and squeezed it. "We won't go to Bend. I promise."

Twenty minutes later, we came to a fork in the road. The sign read "Bend" with an arrow pointing left. The arrow pointing right had "Prineville" above it.

I turned on my blinker, turned right, and drove away from the town that had generated most of my nightmares.

Instantly, I noticed my shoulders relaxed, the grip on the steering wheel loosened, and my mood got lighter. I felt a peace come over me that was already there, but amid my anxiety and panic, I had forgotten. I took my eyes off Jesus like Peter did when he saw the waves on the water. Jesus reached out to Peter and pulled him to safety. Jesus also pulled me out of my miry pit because he cared for me. Even with Peter's fears and doubts, when he couldn't see beyond the storm, Jesus was still with him. Jesus has been with me these last five years, including the entire drive to Arizona, but I focused on the past storm and worried and didn't see him in the darkness. Jesus is Lord of the night, and even when I can't see, he's there with me, allowing me to take baby steps toward him to wholeness and healing.