Roads
by Rachel Hayden
New and charcoal black, gray with age, cracked from wear or rarely traveled, roads are an integral part of life. Yet roads are overlooked – their importance very much taken for granted. Roads take us to our greatest acclaims and away from our most profound defeats. Some of the most beautiful roads are said to lead to nowhere. But those are the same roads that lead past farms that sustain families. They lead the faithful to church and take them home again, renewed with the sense of God’s love and edification that only comes with fellowship from like-minded believers. They meander past stunning vistas of sparkling streams, snow-capped mountains, and lush, fertile valleys. They arch over rivers loaded with barges and leisure boats or perhaps nothing more than an open waterway. They lead into great cities filled with people and commerce. Roads take us everywhere.
The roads I have been on have been congested with traffic, covered in snow, and completely empty except for myself. I have driven them with a clear destination in mind as well as with nowhere at all to go. I have been on thousands of roads in my years, most of them long-since forgotten. But there are a handful of roads that have particular meaning to me because of where they lead….
400 South is the rough country road that leads to my parents house – my family home – has been traveled countless times. Yet each time I turn on that road, my tenseness is replaced with respite and peace because just a mile down that road is a place of unconditional love, absolute acceptance, and relief from the harshness sometimes afforded to me in the course of daily life. It is the same road where my brother and I would spend countless hours on our bicycles – where my sister and I would walk to the end of the road and back to discuss our childish dreams – the same road where, one hot summer day in the mid-1980s, I had to sacrifice one of my prized purple Jellies (rubber, woven sandals) to the road gods after it got stuck in the hot, steamy asphalt when I went out to get the mail. That one-mile stretch of pavement is packed with memories….
The hilly, twisty road that leads to my mother-in-law’s house – a home filled with history and stories – is much less familiar to me but exceedingly significant nonetheless. Her area of the state is filled with hollows, knobs, and hills. It passes both grand horse farms and dilapidated shacks short distances apart. It ambles past some of the bourbon distilleries that give Kentucky its identity. I see several dozen houses with statues of the Virgin Mary in their front yards – a testament to the overwhelmingly Catholic population of the area. And we arrive at my mother-in-law’s house where we are welcomed with hugs and Southern soul food. I hear stories about my husband as a child – stories he would prefer stay quiet out of sheer embarrassment – and stories about this great family that existed with a rich history long before I was blessed to become a part of it.
There is a stretch of Interstate 64 in Southern Indiana that has meaning to me for several reasons. It is a beautiful stretch of interstate that traverses past historic Corydon, my father’s home, and through Hoosier National Forest. Exiting and driving a short distance will take one to famous Santa Claus, Indiana. Just 3 miles from Santa Claus is Lincoln Boyhood National Memorial. It was here that a seed was planted….one that made me desire to be a park ranger for the National Park Service. As Dad and I would drive towards the National Memorial, my head would be filled with visions of my future as a park ranger in my ultimate destination, Yosemite National Park. I drove that road when I met with the recruiter for the National Park Service to discuss how I could get on as a Park Ranger once I finished college. I headed home after that meeting filled with hope, noticing the rich beauty of the Hoosier National Forest, and deep in dreams. I returned to that road several more times, after the dreams of working for the Park Service had been set aside but still anticipating the proud Indiana heritage that I would find along the way.
That same section of I-64 also leads to Saint Meinrad, Indiana, home of Saint Meinrad Archabbey and Monte Cassino Shrine. This place is my personal Catholic Mecca. Long before I was Catholic, I was drawn to this place. The peace and beauty I found there on those grounds and inside that church is one of the reasons I am Catholic today - I felt the Lord calling me. The roads leading through the abbey grounds are narrow and quiet, leading past small ponds and the various buildings that make up the seminary, church, and convent. The grounds are always quiet and full of peace. Follow the road out of the abbey and head up the sharp hill to Monte Cassino Shrine. The road leading to the shrine is perilous – one edge has a steep drop-off. Once the precipice is reached, though, the road evens out and the small chapel of the Shrine comes into view. Just past the chapel, the road turns to gravel and meanders off….where to I have yet to discover. Built in the late 1800s, this small chapel is a place of utter tranquility. Trees surround the chapel, enveloping it in deep shade in the spring and summer months. The only sounds to be heard are the birds singing and the tree leaves rustling. Driving a few feet past the chapel will deliver me to the beautiful Ginko Biloba tree, whose leaves turn firey orange in the fall and remain that way long after other leaves have fallen to the ground. There are pews, a pulpit, and a life-size crucifix set up for worshipping outside with nature. Inside the chapel, the prayerful pilgrim is greeted with old, worn, wooden pews and a stone floor that has seen over 100 years of worshipers. There are ornate paintings on the walls and ceilings and a beautiful shrine to the Blessed Mother, Mary.
My favorite road, these days, ends at a rocky driveway. Inside that small, unassuming house sitting next to that driveway, Tim and Kyle will be waiting for me. Tim greets me with a kiss and Kyle greets me with a dance, a tail wag that causes his entire back end to shift, and a bark that lets me know he needs to venture into his kingdom, a.k.a. the back yard. When I drive onto that street, I am transformed into the happy housewife. The stress of my job is forgotten and the hassles of home take over – laundry, cooking, cleaning, going to bed on time. But the hassle is welcomed because the road has taken me exactly where I - mind, body, and soul - need to be, yearn to be, urge to be when I am not there. This diminutive little house holds the keys to my heart, memories of the past, and hopes for the future.
These roads are all concrete – visible, traversable, and available for everyone to drive upon. Yet each of these roads has created a path that I have followed. These paths and roads are not visible to anyone but me and are not traversable by anyone but myself. They are followed sometimes by my heart, sometimes by my brain, and always by my soul. Sadly, over time, some of the paths have grown over with foliage and are no longer accessible. Some roads are just simply blocked and the odds of reaching them again are insurmountable. But every day, a new road is created. Some start small, barely visible, pebbled with small stones. Others pop up, fully lit and as wide as an inner-city expressway. These paths are all there, waiting for me to choose one to follow. Once that path is chosen, I will once again find myself on a busy highway, heading towards my next dream, adventure, or place of peace.