"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Hebrews 11:1
In 2012, my family of seven moved from our beautiful California home to Oregon, in a caravan of 3 white vehicles and one standard-sized RV. We had already been considering moving to Oregon, and once my dad lost his job in California, we decided that it was time. We didn't have a home to move to, so the plan was to stay in our RV until my dad could find a job in Oregon. We thought it might be two months at the most before he found a job.
On the way up to Oregon, we stopped off at my cousins' beautiful vineyard in Sonoma. They had a mahogany-filled library, a separate guest house, and a room with a view of the golden gate bridge that my sister and I stayed in. They were truly graceful hosts, and the whole experience was a welcomed rest stop in the upheaval our lives were in. While there we laughed together, ate good food, and played music; and through it all, I understood that everything would be okay in the end. Even if my family's situation was unsure, I had faith that one day we'd be settled into a home, making joyous music to warm our own walls, once more.
We arrived at our Oregon destination before long: a little RV park in the small town of Coburg. I began to regularly take bike rides into the quiet neighborhood, or through the rows of RV's, simply to avoid the restlessness that accompanies RV living.
In the late winter, when we first arrived, the wind and rain beat against the RV's paneling and shook the vehicle itself. In the top bunk, I hated the sound of the rain that rustled my sleep every night, and I hated the cold of the top bunk. Around this time, my oldest sister became engaged to a wonderful young man who I somewhat despised at the time simply for taking her away. I hated that, too. I am incredibly territorial over my family and I knew that it would be a great loss, the depth of which I couldn't deny.
My life in California had been fairly predictable: there was always sun, my huge family, our big backyard, and Miguel's Jr. on the weekends. Everything was changing, and having young teenage eyes to view everything through, the change was monumental.
However, there was always that glimmering hope. When we first got to Oregon, we were greeted with rows of pink trees in the pasture flanking the RV park, and in the park itself. Among all of the cracked asphalt and grey sky, these bright little trees greeted us. I immediately decided when I saw those trees that everything would be okay. They felt like some sort of a promise.
Time passed, summer came and the blossoms on those trees fell, and my sister's wedding approached. Once the Autumn hit, it was back to the rocking, raining weather that I was familiar with. In the midst of the storms, I would close my eyes and try to fall asleep, imagining better days.
I had two distinct places I would go to:
One was my imaginary perfect room. Book cases lined the walls, and it was all white and flowing, with soft blue accents. It also had a window seat- (very important.)
The other imagination I began to have was of my sister's wedding. I eventually realized that the man she loved was worthy of her, and I began to look forward to their union, and... would you believe it? I was happy for them. I imagined every detail of that wedding, it was a good place for me to go to when our situation felt a little hopeless.
Now I know that it wasn't just the harsh weather that I coped with that year. I lost my sister to her marriage, my family dynamic changed once we left the RV- both of my oldest siblings flew the coop at the same time. I lost the lifelong friends I had in California, and everything that I had imagined my life would be there. And yet, one more imagination helped pull me through.
I would imagine California as a place, our household, all in this cinematic golden fog that represented its metaphorical nature. Directly adjacent to our home was the RV, it was literally a hallway in my imagination, and practically a hallway in reality. On the other side of the RV was the unknown, but I knew that our time in the RV was a travelling point, a journey to another side. That's how I think of every trial I go through now, it's just a travelling point, a way to propel me directly into the future of the blissful unknown, and in the hallway I always have with me the wonderful substance of hope.
*I've decided: instead of just putting definitions of words at the beginning of my posts, I'll switch it up and have quotes, too.
Thanks for reading!
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