May has been an eventful month for our family. The first week of May, PwC laid off 1500 of its US employees, citing “market alignment” as the reason. Unfortunately, Jake was one of them. His team was one of the hardest hit, and so his 8 years of loyal employment came to a very unexpected and unceremonious end.
It unsettled us more than we would’ve expected, mostly because of how out of the blue and unjust it felt. As a dear friend of mine said, “The ugliness of the machine world embedded in the hearts of men came right up to your door”. We spent the week processing, grieving, venting, and planning next steps. We appreciate your prayers as we continue discerning what’s next for our little family.
But there is only so much one can do directly after something like this, and our planned camping trip over Mother’s Day weekend ended up being very providential: an escape from cell service and our uprooted routines, and a retreat to the beauty of God’s creation and a reminder of His promises.
Our trip started with a bang: the trailer tire exploding on the freeway. Between changing tires and replacing spares through two different tire shops, it added an extra three hours to the trip — but we made it to the mountains before sunset. We even got our preferred campsite despite the delay.
And it was so good. If you’ve never visited Sequoia/Kings Canyon National Forest/Park, all I can say is: please visit at least once. It’s breathtaking. The National Parks truly are one of the best things about the United States.
Camping for us isn’t as much about “doing things” as getting away from the demands of technology and civilization. We still took walks and visited landmarks, but our main goal was just simply existing in the beauty and letting it soak into us and heal us.
Jake and the kids walked uncounted miles around the small campground loop, Bea in the stroller and Michael on his balance bike. He got incredibly good at it and is excited to soon upgrade to a pedal bike.
We spent an afternoon lakeside, reading, skipping stones, tossing sticks and rocks, and building sandcastles. Michael got to see fish and water snakes and explore further upriver with me and grandpa.
In the evenings, when the kids slept, we played Euchre and Spit with decks of cards, keeping the curious moths away from our beers. Jake and I also played several games of Othello, one of our nightly favorites.
Beatrice’s language skills exploded over the few days we were gone: she now says “cheese!” whenever you take her photo, and points and says “please” when she wants something. She also gives kisses with a big “mwah!” and when you say “Ready, Set…” she finishes with an enthusiastic “GO!”.
While Bea, Jake, and I napped and stayed with the dogs (yes, we brought all three of the dogs with us), my parents took Michael to see the largest living tree in the world. They took some beautiful pictures to share the experience with us. I can’t believe how old Michael looks — it seems like only yesterday he was a tiny baby.
There is something so healing about the sound of wind through the pine trees and eagles calling in the distance. Watching our children play in frigid lake water and run barefoot through the forest, eating meals cooked outdoors together, examining bugs and pinecones under magnifying glasses, seeing the stars unpolluted by fluorescent light, and playing cards by lantern’s glow — all these things brought us back to what’s truly important.
And now, rejuvenated by our mountain retreat, we are home and maintaining the homestead routine as we move forward with the job search. Despite picking up on our anxiety at the unknown, the kids are doing well, full of life and laughter. We have a fantastic community surrounding and rallying around us. Our church, our friends, our family — despite the difficult circumstances, we’ve never felt less alone.
The words of Dame Julian of Norwich keep coming to me, as fresh as the mountain breeze, countering my desire for control and certainty and the anxiety that whirls around both:
All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.
five acres four generations 