On my way through Maine- Part 2

Although I haven’t been traveling near as long as I would like to, I’ve already come to the realization that smaller towns are much easier to manage than big ones. When I enter a temple in a large city, where the church is established and strong, it’s hard to attract much attention at all. People seemed unconcerned and uninterested with your life story, and like I had said about Manhattan; hard to impress. The members are fantastic, and I don’t intend to bash upon any of them in any way, but there is a clear difference between those in larger towns and those in smaller ones. My arrival to the small Southern Maine town of Sanford was met with smiles, meals, and arms wide open.  

Because Brother Shaw’s home was home to more than just his own family, he quickly found me a place to stay with an elderly couple right in town. He led me from the interstate all the way up the highway to his home, where he put more food in front of me than I thought I could eat. After I was too top heavy to safely operate my vehicle, I hopped onto the bike and followed him once again to that elderly couple’s home in town. Right from the beginning, I could tell I was going to love it there. The Coombs were quiet loving people devoted to their faith and always willing to help out in any way that they could. They instantly were my adopted grandparents, and I spent the first night enjoying an episode of “noodling” on the discovery channel with Brother Coombs (the process of catching a catfish by sticking ones hand into the water and into the mouth of said catfish and pulling the fish out in that manner).

It didn’t take long to realize that Brother Coombs was an artistic and talented man. His house was flooded with art projects and different work, as well as his beloved piano that not even a stroke, arthritis, or broken finger could keep him away from. It didn’t take much to convince him to fight through the pain and play a few songs for me- he played miraculously. I felt not only honored and blessed to see what I was seeing, but humbled as well.

The weekend I spent in Maine during my wait from Hurricane Irene to pass was a short one. By the time I was leaving Monday morning I was sad to see that it had gone by so quickly! I spent Saturday visiting the ocean between Wells and Kennebunk Beaches, unfortunately the haze kept me from any photography opportunities. My knack for getting lost followed me throughout my travels that day, and didn’t give me directions back to Sanford. By the time I had finished my way around southern Maine I was ready for bed. Sunday was an entirely different sort of day.

The hurricane had already begun to come in early that morning, but came with more force during sacrament meeting. Everything after sacrament meeting was canceled for the day- Church closed on account of Hurricane. I hadn’t seen that before. From the moment I walked into that ward, I was greeted with smiles, handshakes, questions, and conversations. I was pleasantly surprised to hear on several occasions in Maine that some people were proud of what I was doing. It’s strange to hear a recent acquaintance tell you they are proud of you- pleasantly strange.

I was invited to eat with a young family in the ward after church that just so happened to live right next door to the Coombs. By the time I had gotten back from church the storm was in full fury. I made my way hurriedly through the storm and too the next door neighbors home. If it weren’t for the fact that this family had a daughter mixed in with their three sons, I would have been thoroughly convinced I was looking at my own family. Their sons had personalities just like me and my brothers, and it made me think back to my own life and memories with my family. I wouldn’t be exaggerating to say I was blessed with one of the most amazing families in the world. Sometimes I wish I could go back to the days when my brothers and I would spend hours building elaborate forts in the basement with the hopes of a slumber party. We usually couldn’t make it through the night without getting scared and returning to our beds.

Near the end of lunch, the phone rang and to the disappointment of the kids, their dad was asked to help out with a couple trees that had fallen over onto the bishop’s house from the storm. They had been planning on having a Wii party sometime after lunch, and this news came as a blow on that plan. Me and their dad and the oldest son left during the storm and made our way to the bishop’s house. Within an hour what appeared to be the whole elders quorum had arrived to help. 

Two chainsaw wielding backcountry Maine guys began hacking at those trees like they were butter, and I couldn’t help but think- one of these guys is going to cut his legs off. There were several instances when I thought they were going to die for sure, especially when one was on the steep wet roof with the wind steadily roaring as he cut through the tree with his chainsaw. If I learned one thing that afternoon, it’s that people are nuts in Maine! 

By the time we had finished hours later, we were all damp and sticky with pine sap. That’s one way to get experience the wild land of Maine! We got back to the house, where the kids were eagerly waiting for the Wii party to begin. The next couple hours were spent hounding cookies and playing the Wii. I thought I couldn’t get any worse at bowling than I already am in real life- I stood corrected. My skills at baseball, bowling, and tennis all grew even worse in the virtual world. My spirits were crushed.

By that night the storm was cooling down, and I was sure I would be on my way to Acadia National Park on my way to Halifax that next morning. Although I didn’t want to leave all the amazing people I had just met, the beauty of Acadia seemed all too enticing.

A Stop in Boston on my way to Maine

His weathered hands shakily lift the books from the bench and placed them unsteadily on the table- clearing himself a seat. He edged his way delicately between the seat and the instrument; “I can’t play like I used to anymore,” his voice informed in a soft deep tone, “now I’ve got arthritis in my hand, and I broke my finger a while back. I can play for a little while, but if I play too long my hands begin to hurt.” Although many years and experiences had brought the course of life upon his appearance, he had a young man’s spirit. His eyes were the clever clue of his youthful nature, and I could tell that no matter how many years would wear him down and pass him by, his eyes would remain as unchanged as they did in this moment.

Youthful eyes made their way to his hands, arranging them carefully on each key. Without a moment’s hesitation his hands danced freely across the keys, flooding the room with personally composed music from the 40s, 50s, and 60s. I felt not only honored and blessed to see what I was seeing, but humbled as well. In the midst of my astonishment I wondered quietly how I had managed to end up here of all places.

It was nine-thirty at night and still I hadn’t found a place to stay. My mind bounced between possibilities. Maybe I had received an email from the bishop I had called the night before inquiring about a place I could lay my sleeping bag. The wary and cautious tone that had been in his voice didn’t do much to calm my nerves. He seemed hesitant to help me out, and could I blame him? I was a total stranger, and for all he knew, one that had intentions to take advantage of the caring and charitable nature of the church and its members. I took his side, didn’t blame him for suspicion, and moved on to other possibilities. Only a couple days earlier I had been pursuing a lead during my stay in Ballston Lake, New York. In the beginning it seemed promising- a sure place to stay for a couple nights- but in time didn’t manage to hold my hope. It’s hard to keep focused on anything for too long when you haven’t received the comforting reassurance that you’ll have a place to lay your head for the night. Tonight wasn’t any different.

The sun was gone, and with it all tranquility that I could manage to keep a grip on. Not to say I was in a panicked frenzy, but I was a bit worried about where I could put up a tent in Belmont just outside of Boston. Even with a mind buzzing with worry, I was calm and cool next to my bike in the temple parking lot. I assured myself that it couldn’t get much worse than a tent in the woods, and I had bought and packed the tent for a reason. Maybe I had just been spoiled too much from the nurturing care of those I had met throughout New England. Now anything less than my own bed within the home of a local member seemed like a dangerous endeavor.

Even though I housed a worried mind, I was thankful to be at the temple of all places. I’ve noticed throughout the past couple weeks that the time I spend between temples strongly contrasts to the time I spend at them. The harmony and calm I feel looking at His House even from a distance is what provides me with the peace to continue on each day. Many have asked me how I can be doing this entirely alone, questions all backed with their own personal fears of being on their own. One cannot feel alone at the temple. Empty the parking lots and lock the doors, take every form of life from that plot of land, and you will still never feel alone. The Spirit that surrounds the temples is undeniable. Boston was no different. I thought back to my casual stroll through the temple grounds earlier in the day. As the 100^th temple in service for the church, President Hinckley made sure to make this a special one. Those that have had the blessing to see the Boston Temple will know he succeeded in that attempt.

I came back from my thoughts and made a call home to a once again worried mother. “I’ll just put up a tent in the woods behind the stake center,” I said as calmly and collectively as I could. “I don’t like it Josh,” repeated my mom for the eighteenth time. I assured her I would be okay, and that I was bound to spend a few nights outside on the trip anyways. Tonight was the night for that. I told her it was a lovely night and it would be just fine. I didn’t lie, but I could tell it would soon stray from being a nice night. A thick humidity and quiet stillness made my eyes wonder from horizon to horizon. Distant flashes of light signaled warning of the storm that was soon to come.

I tapped my phone to check the time. It was 9:43 PM and the missionaries I had met as I made my way into Boston still hadn’t found a place for me to stay, not that I demanded such a request. I appreciated their willingness to help me out, no matter what that help may be. I watched as everyone began to make their way out of the last temple session and peacefully to their cars. I envied them. They didn’t have a worry in their head about where they’d be sleeping that night.

Didn’t my aunt know someone in Boston? I thought back to an earlier text I had received that day; they were out of town. Three strikes and you’re out. I did what I could. After a short evening of looking at the temple grounds and a quick endowment session I had even made small talk with some of the temple workers about what I was doing with the hopes they would be able to shed some light on my lodging worries. It also proved ineffective. So that put me at four strikes. That doesn’t work in baseball; I figured I would have to choose a new sport to stay in the game- I opted for ten strike kickball. I couldn’t leave the temple just yet. Logic failed me, but hope held on.

My neighbor parked to my left had already come and left with not as much as a hello as I sat there with puppy eyes and an arm over my jenga tower of bags packed on the rear of my bike. Maybe my neighbor on the right would provide another opportunity.

 Here he came now. They were obviously a father and son. He nodded to me. I returned the favor. They got in their truck after his son ran off to speak with another gentleman in the parking lot once more. They pulled away. Why hadn’t I said anything to them? My mind slapped my arm and convinced it to put out a hand at the next opportunity. I watched the taillights pull away from me, then the flash of brakes. Was he stopping? The car sat there leaving the parking lot for a moment, then began to slowly reverse. “Really?” I thought.  His gentle trip in reverse slowly put his rolled down window right in front of me and my bike.

“Are you driving your bike home tonight,” He asked with a loving inquisitive voice.

“Well, no…not really. I’m from St. George, Utah.” I said shocked at the conversation I had gotten a second chance to have. After a few more words shared, he jumped out of his truck excited and interested about the trip I was pursuing.

“I’m Stephen Shaw,” He said with his hand outstretched.

“Josh Redmon.”

 “I wish I had a place for you to stay,” he said, “but I live two hours north of here in a town called Sanford, Maine.” Sanford would become a place I hold close to heart. I feel the same spirit of love and charity as I felt when I was there every time I think of Sanford.

“I’ll be okay,” I told him halfheartedly, “I can just put up a tent somewhere behind the church over there if worse comes to worse.”

Without even a request or plead Brother Shaw was off towards the temple. A couple minutes later he came back, “Hey I got you a place to stay- two senior missionaries, the Metcalfs. They are temple workers- they’re great people.”

I couldn’t believe it. After all my work to find a place to stay, a process I had carried over several days, this member had found me a place to stay within three minutes. I wanted to cry and shout for joy all at once. I knew this man loved me and I loved him right back- not because he had helped me, but because I could feel in that moment, we were brothers. Brother Shaw’s Christ-like love humbled me. I saw a miracle that night.

I came to find out a couple nights later when I pulled up in front of Brother Shaw’s house, that he had felt prompted to go back and talk to me. He told me the thought came to his mind but he pushed it away not wanting to bother me. He had just figured I was a local single with some buddies or something of the sort. I will always be thankful for him and that night he heeded a small prompting and showed a young boy the tender mercies of our Heavenly Father. Brother Shaw was a tool in His hands that night. Even when all we do, or attempt to do fails; God can show us that he is the miracle at the end of our faith.   

Minutes after I had met Brother Shaw, he was gone. But the impact his service had left would remain permanently etched in my mind. Soon I was following the Metcalf’s car through small winding Massachusetts streets up the hillside to the east of the temple. Apparently I had come right at the perfect time, because just days before my arrival they had bought a blow up mattress for their cozy third-floor apartment. I told them I would be happy to break it in for them.  They were amazing people, instantly adopting me as their son. Plates full of food and glasses of milk pushed my way soon made that evident. They are a loving and humble couple from Alaska. A picture of a fifty-three pound salmon caught on his boat soon made me realize they would be a perfect stop on my way to the Anchorage Alaska Temple next year. They were a double blessing.

Only a week or so after the night I stayed with Elder and Sister Metcalf, I went numb to the news of a close friend of mine’s death in Argentina. Most elders have the blessing to grow close to many families throughout the course of their missions, often times to one in particular. I had “my family”. The Arduvino family quickly became “my family” in Argentina as we were blessed to watch a single mother, her three kids, and three adopted nephews return to church and partake of the blessings that it offers us in this troubled world. To hear that a member of that family had passed away hit a big part of my heart and had me wondering why. I prayed for that family as they were surely passing through a difficult moment and I realized deep down that the reassurance they needed most was that that the distance between Heaven and Earth isn’t that far at all.

There I sat in the Metcalf’s home and the details of our lives began to come out as we shared a quick dinner together before bed. The faith that emanated from them like light as they told me about a sudden and unexpected death within their own family was spectacular. They knew that that distance between Heaven and Earth was so small, and they were able to help me learn it at such an ideal time. The comfort they had received from the knowledge of eternal families that the temple provides could not be overseen. They were peaceful, hopeful, and patiently waiting for the day they would once again see their own loved one.

The temple cannot take away the pain of death, but only mend the wound and provide hope. As members of the church, we do not fear death so much as others may. We see it as the threshold between a mortal and immortal life- a doorway to eternity. Life does not end here, it begins. Life ends when we make ourselves slaves to the world and take a step on its dead end path. In a world of dead-ends, we must make sure to keep to the path that leads to true happiness. The world may lead you to momentary pleasures, some of which may last the entire course of your life on Earth, but realize that nothing but your experiences and loved ones will leave this world with you. A misplaced heart is one buried in the things of this world. The temple helps us to realize where true happiness lies.

The incoming threats of Hurricane Irene soon had me to the conclusion that my stay in Boston would be a quick one. I needed a good place to wait out the storm, and Boston seemed to lie directly within its path. Brother Shaw offered me a place to stay in Sanford, and I took it eagerly. I wasn’t in Boston for much longer than 24 hours, but the impression that temple and those I met left on me will last forever.

I spent that next day getting what few pictures I could in the morning light, having breakfast with the Metcalfs, failing in an attempt to explore downtown Boston, doing one last session in one of the most beautiful temples I have ever seen, and packing up and leaving frantically. The sun was already beginning to hide behind the temple spire as I made my way out of my last session and to my bike to pack up and leave. The sky was too beautiful and the photography opportunity too good to pass by. I sacrificed driving in the daylight for photographs in the evening. By the time I had finished taking a few pictures and was packed and ready to go the sun was sagging its way down towards the horizon. I spent the next hour in daylight, enjoying the beautiful New England landscapes that flew past me to the loud growl of my motorcycle. I had to try my best to hold back from stopping and taking pictures of the glowing sunset clouds and beautiful sporadic ponds and lakes that dotted the countryside. I felt like I was letting the beauty fall through my fingers. The kiss of the oncoming night cold helped keep me positioned atop my bike. I took some mental snapshots and continued on. Those that ride bikes know that jacket weather off of a bike, becomes Antarctic temperatures when you’re riding. By the time the sun had set I half expected to see flurries. It was still sixty degrees outside. I was being a baby. Despite my rattling shivers and numb fingers, I was in Maine and on my way to meet up with Brother Shaw.