Good Friday Getaway

Good Friday.  A day to observe the death of our lord.  To sit with the pain, suffering and grief of the world knowing that death is a necessary part of resurrection.  A day where Christians around the world sit in quiet reflection and contemplation.

I, however, hopped in a convertible yellow mini with my friend Laura and headed West to the (unusually) sunny and (usually) windy Oregon coast.

This has been a hard week.  Not busy like my life tends to be so much as just walking through really hard stuff with my clients.  Some of the hardest stuff I’ve seen so far at the center.  And, mostly, there’s not a damn thing I can do about any of it.  So I sit, trying to practice what Henri Nouwen refers to as a “ministry of gentle presence.”  But mostly I just feel helpless.

So the idea of welcoming the empty tomb a little early instead of practicing more gentle presence with the cross was irresistible to me–I jumped at the opportunity (hopefully I’ll get around to some of my thoughts around Holy Week this year before too long, but who knows?).

With no plan besides “coast,” Laura and I hopped in the car and headed West over the St. John’s Bridge and Germantown Road.  Before too long the welcome sight of Haystack rock appeared around the corner.  We grabbed some coffee at the Sleepy Monk (great coffee, by the way) and made our way out to the beach.

It was a glorious day. Not a cloud in the sky.  Aside from the wind (which was substantial), it was perfect.

After some good wrestling with the deeper questions of life, Laura and I opted to head North.  I am a creature of habit and my Oregon coast habit is Cannon Beach and Manzanita.  Not so today!  We turned our cute little yellow mini the opposite direction and made our way to Astoria (we figured it could be a Goonies themed excursion).  After a brief detour to Fort Stevens so we could see the shipwreck we arrived in Astoria–and the Ft. George Brewery.

I’m a sucker for yummy beer, so I was a happy camper at Ft. George–aside from the tarantula they had hanging out behind the bar!  Laura in her empathic brilliance started referring to it as a turtle so I wouldn’t get up and walk out of the restaurant–or start hyperventilating at the table.  ”It’s only a turtle” is  now standard code for anything that’s a really big deal but needs a substantial dose of downplaying.  I highly recommend it.

So speaking of downplaying, there is this matter of a bridge in Astoria that’s kind of a turtle for me.  When I was a child we used to go camping in Long Beach, and to get there you had to cross the Astoria Bridge–the Super-Terrifying-Looks-Like-You’re-Driving-Off-The-Edge-Of-The-Bridge-and-Into-The-Water-Which-Then-You-Drive-Right-On-Top-Of-Astoria-Bridge.

I have always hated that bridge.

Well, I mean at least I hated it when I was a kid.  I haven’t been to Astoria in at least 20 years.

Since we’d already thrown the traditional observance of Good Friday out the window, and then habitual tendencies in not going to Manzanita, we figured we might as well drive over that dang bridge.  You will not be the boss of me, silly bridge!

We crossed that bridge not once, but twice, and after watching the sun set over the longest beach in the US we headed back home.

I cannot imagine a more perfect day.