On Friday I began my morning devotions an hour before Brady’s alarm went off. It was growing more clear to me that my coming to California was layered with purposes that were not just my own or my dad’s. To start with, something had wedged itself between my brother and me, and I likely would not have picked up on it had I not come. Second, I was still prayerfully contemplating my dad’s parting words when he left on Wednesday, that perhaps he wished he had done things differently with me. This was not something I had ever detected from him before. Third, and the most compelling, I was feeling my mother’s presence here in a way I never had before, which was odd considering she’d never stepped foot in this house nor even been to California, as far as I knew.
This was not a trip just to discover who I was. It was also a trip to discover who my mother was out in the world, beyond the farm and my Amish family’s recollections. Perhaps, I realized now, what God had been doing the last few restless months was not so much preparing me to figure out where I truly belonged, but to confront once and for all the reasons why my mother left the Amish faith. I was her son. Those reasons mattered.
Especially if I ended up following in her footsteps.
In my prayers I asked God to keep guiding me to the truths He wanted me to find. If I really was here to learn more about my mother, I wasn’t sure why He had ordained I come at the exact time when the one person who had known her best—my father—was out of the country, but I trusted He had things under control.
As for me, all I had to go on thus far was the one conversation between me and my dad before he left, the new knowledge that my mother loved photography, and the messages she had written to him in the pictorial book on Germany. I desperately wanted that box of my mother’s photos my dad had mentioned. It was no good to me locked away in a storage unit somewhere.
When my prayer time ended, I headed to the study and emailed my dad, asking him if he would mind if I went to the storage unit myself to find that box of photos.
After that, I made blueberry pancakes for Brady and me, using Mammi’s recipe with a little nutmeg and cinnamon. They turned out pretty good, and as he wolfed down his share, he told me that his friend’s sister, the photographer, Lark, would meet me at the snack bar tonight as soon as the game was over.
“Thanks for setting it up,” I told him. “Any idea what she’s hoping to accomplish when we meet?”
He took one final bite and then carried his plate to the sink. “I dunno. You said you wanted to learn stuff about photography. She told me she knows a few other students who might be willing to help. Not for free, but it’ll still be cheaper than hiring some professional. Isn’t that what you wanted? A cheap tutor?” His tone was still sharp, his attitude defiant.
“Um, yeah. Sure. Thanks, Brady.”
“Yep.” He rinsed his dish and set it in the sink. He hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else, and then he seemed to think better of it and held his tongue. He walked back to the table and began gathering up his papers and books.
“What about you, though?” I asked. “You don’t mind waiting around after the game while she and I chat?”
He paused to look up at me, the now-familiar disdain fully returning to his expression. “The players can’t leave right away, Tyler. I’ll be in the locker room, at least for a while.”
“Ah,” I said, my voice even. “Thanks for clarifying.”
He asked what I would be wearing so that he could text Lark a description and she could find me. I told him probably Dad’s UCLA Bruins hoodie.
“Good choice,” Brady said, with no hint of whether he was being sarcastic or not.
Once he was gone, I took Frisco for a morning walk, trying to put my little brother’s contentiousness out of my mind. It was trash day but the trucks hadn’t come through yet, which unfortunately meant stopping at nearly every set of cans in the neighborhood for a good sniff.
At least we had another beautiful day, I told myself as I tugged on the dog’s leash to get him moving again. And again. I was looking forward to the time I would spend working on my container garden project. I hoped I could finish clearing out all of the bushes this morning and then finally get to a store for all of the supplies this afternoon.
Frisco and I walked our usual three-block by three-block square, the last leg bringing us past the house where I had fallen off the bike the day before. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought except that when we paused at their trash cans, I spotted a familiar sight crammed into the pile: the little boy’s skateboard.