In the early days of married life my husband, Burt, and I would go for drives on our days off. We would pack a picnic and meander down the road to visit an apple orchard, or see sailboats, or explore an antique shop, or rediscover a spot my husband remembered from year’s past. It was a welcome ending to our week. Both of us were pastoring active churches that required an abundance of night meetings, long Sundays, and lots of time on the phone. But we were faithful to at least one completely untethered day. Something about the physical act of getting in the car and driving out of town seemed to lighten the load. As we logged mile by mile the cares and concerns that had occupied the last 40 plus hours of work time would slowly fade. How good it was to be on the road! How good it was to be free. Our adventures often involved back roads and highways. “Let’s head down to route 10 and take the Jamestown Ferry,” Burt would say. And off we would go. I don’t have memories of shopping or being entertained, but I have an abundance of memories of just being together. A pastor I worked with at the time shared how much he admired this weekly ritual Burt and I honored of time for each other.

Of course, when our children arrived we stayed faithful for a bit to our drives, but our oldest would tire quickly and then with the addition of more children and all the responsibilities around caring for them, the ease of the drive was lost and the ritual faded. But now that we’re down to only two at home we often find that these two, ages 13 and 18, both easy-going souls are often amendable to an invitation for a drive or equally amendable for an invitation to enjoy themselves at home while Burt and I head out on our own. Just to drive to some place for a walk, time to think and the joy of being. There’s something precious about these adventures as we observe the changing landscape, the richness of the season, and the gift of time unhurried, unstructured, and uncommitted. Slow time. Full and rich and poignant.