​Since, December 28, 2017, I have been immersed in writing down my story. 

​It was just after Christmas, and I had a week off.   I decided to “rough out” an outline of my life.  Then, I began to intentionally look for God’s purposes that might have been at work shaping me.   In 2018, I started actively chronicling stories.  I accumulated a gaggle of them.  And, low and behold a primary message began to emerge.  It was “God can be trusted in all of life’s transitions”.   
 
In January 2019, I decided to begin telling my stories in a blog – and somewhere along the way, you started getting notified of my posts.  Thanks for reading.
 
A funny thing has happened in the last two-and-a-half years.  Life has kept moving.  The story keeps growing.  The bends in the river have continued.  The river has NOT stopped flowing.    
 
Today is September 11.  Many in the United States will pause to remember the tragedy of 9/11.  I find it hard to comprehend that there will be voters in the 2020 U.S. Presidential election who were born after September 11, 2001.  Time has flown.  Another generation has arrived – a generation who did not personally experience the impact of that day.  History has a way of moving along.
 
Life has a way of bubbling up around us. 

​As a result, it is time for me to take a little pause from regularly posting my story.  I need to “get out of the river”.  Put my reflections “on pause”.  Catch up with life.  And, give some attention to the story that is developing in front of me.

​Some exciting things are happening.

There are several coaching projects that I am working on.  For one of them, I am immersed in helping a 95-year-old mom of a fellow life coach chronicle and unpack her story.  It has been fascinating to regularly meet with her.  Hearing the “Reflections in Her Mirror” has been rewarding and in lockstep with my own vision for writing.  I love it. 
 
Also, I’ve learned a lot about websites and blogging since I started.  I hope to figure out another blog platform before I continue posting.  I am looking for a more streamlined format for future posts that allows for easier following and subscribing. 
 
Lisa or I will notify you when we are restarting.   
 
In October 2020, I turn 66.  With that number, a host of things have crept up that need to be evaluated and attended to.  This includes adjustments to a new normal in caring for my mom.  COVID-19 restrictions have added a new wrinkle for many of us.
 
So, in order to do all of this, a few things need to come off my plate.  A momentary pause in posting will help.
 
Just so you know.  I am always writing, and I hope to start back posting sometime in 2021.     
 
Thanks for bearing with me as I have struggled to "tell God’s story in us" – and to do it in an interesting and meaningful way.   As I said before, writing the story down has been a deeply spiritual encounter.  I thank God for the times I clearly have seen him at work.  And, I especially thank him for all the times that I didn't see him at work - yet he was still there.
 
I’ve learned a lot about myself, God, and his purposes.  I am thankful for Lisa and her part in the story.  I am also thankful that you have been a part of the story as well. 
 
I hope you will “come back and join us” – down the road.

​On August 29, 1947, my mom and dad were married.  They were both 18.  I am thankful for them; their love for each other; and for their Godly example.  My story certainly wouldn't be the same without the commitment they made to each other on this date, and throughout their lives.

Thanks mom & dad.  Lisa and I are both so grateful for your influence in our lives.

Randy & Lisa Carr
​August 29, 2020


PS:  As you may recall from a past blog post, my dad passed away in 1982.  At that point, my parents had been married 34 years.  Many have asked, "How's your mom?"  She is 91 years old, and has lived close to us since 1995.  In June, she fell and broke her hip.  At that time, she had been living in a residential care home, but she is now in a skilled nursing facility just down the road from us.  While her recovery has been slow, her spirits are generally pretty good.  The COVID-19 restrictions have added some challenges to her caregiving, but we have seen God provide.  Thanks so much for your prayers and concern.

Next: September 11 - "The Pause"

Photo Credits:  Carr Collection

​Crumbled sheets fill the wastebasket.  Printouts line the desk.  Drafts “long discarded” - lay in piles on the floor.  Hand-written scribbles in the margins. Misspellings circled in red. 
 
Each reveals its own evidence - of the task at hand.

​

​A "work in progress" is what they called it.  A “rough draft” is another name.  To most, it looks a mess.   The gaps are many.  The ending is yet undone.  Parts of it flow well.  Others are just not right.  To anyone, but the author, it makes little sense.  
 
While the draft remains drafty, and completion is far away, there is a flicker of hope.  There’s the whisper of a message.   There’s an ebb to the flow.  Maybe, just maybe, it is closer to being finished, than it seems.  While imperfect, it has promise.   There’s a heartbeat of promise – that lays deep within its soul.

​From my experience, writing is time-consuming.  It’s tedious.  And, it really is hard work.  Endless edits, revisions, and proofreading go into any work that is ultimately "published" for others to read.    Much like building a house, writing is a process – with stages.  A story is built.  It’s assembled, and put together.
 
At its core, writing is precise.  Nuance gets carried only by words, pictures, and graphics.   Absent are the gestures, body language, tone, and inflections that come when we speak.  Because of this, writing can be challenging.  Clarity can be elusive.  Capturing the intended meaning can be tough.  But, the transferring of a story; the sharing of a thought; a moment of inspiration, can be a very precious reward. 

​These days, I'm learning a lot about rough drafts.  There’s no doubt of this.  As this is my 39th post, I have a healthy trail of drafts so far in my wake.   
 
I am also learning that life is a lot like a “rough draft” as well.  It has seasons and cycles. “Learning from your mistakes” implies that “do overs” happen.  Circumstances may repeat themselves.  Every new day becomes a chance to make revisions to the draft.
 
It has been a year and a half that I have been posting “Reflections in the Mirror”.  Thanks for following my journey so far.  It has been an intensely spiritual experience to write down my story.  I highly recommend for you to reflect on your own.  Even just listing timelines of things that “happened” to me has been helpful to recall later on.  Timelines have created a context for each memory that is told.
 
With each story, I have had to wrestle with events surrounding them.  Did I really encounter God?  Is there really a purpose why God made me?  What unique message or perspective has God given to me – so that people can “see” him in me – and encounter him themselves.
 
So far, in the telling of my story, I am at the age of 32.  At that point, I have gotten through one “rough draft” – so to speak.  I have gotten through a peak and a valley – an ebb and then a flow.  I’m starting to get some shape to the story and develop a “track record”.  Some water, now, is underneath my bridge.
 
I have started to figure out my design: my personality and my traits.  I’m an introvert, a hands-on learner, and an intuitive decision-maker.  I am a jack-of-all-trades, rather than a specialist.  My gift-mix is starting to emerge.  Patterns develop: I tend to get experience before I get a credential.  In 14 years as an adult, I have dabbled in three careers: camping/youth ministry, warehousing, and teaching ESL. 

Recently in my story, I’ve gotten a life partner - who herself is an extrovert, and an analytical decision-maker.  Lisa is God’s perfect match for me.  On top of it, the drive and passion to travel and to learn by doing doesn’t slow down.  In fact, it is becoming much more pronounced in the years to come.

At the age of 18, once I made the decision to make God a priority, I went through a season of developing skills, networks, and relationships.  I began to accumulate experiences.  And, I started wrestling with life, God, and character stuff. 

Still, when I was 32 years old, I had no clear purpose.  I stumbled over the idea of “calling”.  The concept was unclear.  At this point, I still saw calling as a job to pursue, and not a person to become.  I was clueless about any life messages developing.  I couldn’t tell you why God made me.  But, I sort of started noticing that I was open to transition.  And, I was feeling comfortable with lots of change.  Hmm! 

While I can articulate my primary life message today as “God can be trusted in all life’s transitions”, this message is barely peeking through when I was 32.  God will hone and shape it often before I turn 62.  Stay tuned!

Many have asked if these stories will someday be in a book.  The answer is yes.  At another level, this blog has been “a rough draft” for a book down the road.  The title will likely be Refections in the Mirror: Looking Back to See Ahead, God Can Be Trusted.  The book will be an interactive autobiography – a concept I’m not really sure exists.  The goal behind telling my story is for others to see how I discovered my life purpose.  Each “chapter” will have a handful of coaching questions to help others unpack their own life purpose.

While I have enjoyed sharing my story, my story isn’t special.  Let me say that again.  My story is NOT special.  We each have our own special story.  For me, I clearly see God’s story within my own.  But, what IS special about my story - is that it is finally being written down.  It can now be transferred.  Primarily it can be transferred to me and Lisa.  We have grown immensely in our walk with the Lord and each other through the telling of this story. 

It is also my hope that the telling of my story gets transferred on to you that it helps you to pause and reflect on your own journey, your relationship with God, and his purposes for making you. 

Through the writing of this story, I have been reminded, life is “a rough draft” for eternity.  The final product is still coming.  Be encouraged. Accept when the drafts are rough, messy, imperfect, and unclear. 

It’s the sign of “a work in progress”.  It’s a rough draft – and the author isn’t done writing your story yet.
 

For those following my Calling Journey:
Within the context of “being coached for my life purpose”, and my story so far, I have unpacked the first of the stages and valleys found in The Calling Journey.  I am through: the decision to make God a priority in my life (Lordship); the stage of Natural Promotion; and a first major valley: the Valley of Identity.  (For more on this, see my stories “Reflections in the Mirror: The Story Behind the Story”, and “Reflections in the Mirror: The Calling Journey”.)
 
In the next 15 years of the story, as Lisa and I begin to approach 50, we will go through another cycle.  In The Calling Journey it is called “The Preparation Stage”, and for us it’s about 11 years long.  In my story, I refer to this group of stories as “The Straightaway”.    The “Preparation Stage” is then followed by a deep four-year valley.  In The Calling Journey it is called “The Valley of Wholeness”.  I refer to ours as “Carr Trouble”.  This combined peak and valley is yet another “rough draft”.  And, wouldn’t you know it, there’s still more to come after that.

Note:  I love coaching anyone in identifying his or her life purpose.  If you are interested in knowing more, check out the ALIGN Coaching & Ministry Support website, or just write to me about what God is doing in your life.
 
Next Time: The Pause.
 
Photo Credits:  The Carr Collection

​It was a Saturday morning – May 1987.  The skies were clear.  The sun was out.  The day was gorgeous.  The air in the mountains looked to be crisp and fresh.  It was a great day to explore.  And, it was a perfect day for a motorcycle ride.
   
Over the previous weeks, Lisa and I had talked a lot about where we could live.  Because my job was in San Bernardino, it became our “stake in the ground”.   Our choices revolved around it.  While we were used to driving a bit to get to work, we really didn’t want me to commute more than thirty minutes.  So we narrowed our search to one area on the map. 

​Now, it was time for some serious reconnaissance.   
 
The San Gabriel Mountains rise above Pasadena and the Los Angeles Basin.  Exploring the mountain roads on my motorcycle had been an easy date for Lisa and me.  We would ride and hike.  Or, we would ride and have a picnic.  We did this through three years of friendship, and a year of dating.   The mountains were special to us, and coupled with the motorcycle, were becoming part of our story.
 
While we were content to explore the San Gabriel Mountains, my perspective got stretched in the nine months prior to our wedding.  I started teaching English to international students at a university 60 miles directly east of Pasadena.  It was located at the base of the San Bernardino Mountains.
 
The “draw” of the location upon me was strong.

Five days a week, I drove east on the freeway to the university in San Bernardino.  Five days a week, I stared at the San Bernardino Mountains - which were literally in front of me when I parked.  There was nothing subtle about their presence.  At the back edge of the campus, the mountains rose dramatically for 5,000 feet.  The towering view was unobstructed.  There were no foothills.  It just went up and up.

​On a clear and breezy day, you could stand in the university parking lot and watch hang gliders launch.  You could see them catch the thermals and fly in lazy circles until they eventually landed in a designated area next to the university.  It was intriguing to watch.
 
I wondered.  Could we live anywhere near where those hang gliders are launched?
 
On wintery days, the mountains would be shrouded in clouds.  The only evidence of the snowy conditions in the mountains above was the occasional pickup truck that had just arrived in the campus parking lot.  Its bed piled high with snow – encouraging impromptu snowball fights, and talk of skiing.  Once the clouds cleared, the blanket of snow that covered the mountain was spectacular.   The forest green contrasted by the snowy white was breath-taking.
 
Neither of us knew much about this mountain range, nor the communities that were there.  We had no idea if it could be a place to live, but we began to be curious.  All of our exploring had been in the mountain range above Pasadena, not this one.  Yet, with my job being in San Bernardino, it made sense to explore the area nearby, and see what we could discover.
  
As we began to look at maps to see what was “over there” in the San Bernardino Mountains, we discovered that our favorite mountain road dropped down out of the San Gabriel Mountains, crossed the Cajon pass, and continued right into the San Bernardino Mountains.  It cut through the heart of the two ranges.  As we pondered the map, I knew that I had found our target destination - the potential first community we could settle in and call home.  The name got my attention!
 
The tiny little dot on the map simply said “Summit”.
 
I figured with a name like Summit the town had to be at the top of a mountain and if so, it must have gorgeous views.   We both loved mountain peaks and their vistas.  Lisa had gone to college just outside the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.  Two years earlier, my pump had gotten primed when I was able to wander through Tibet, and experience the Himalayas first hand.   So, once we talked it over, a plan was formed.
  
We fired up the motorcycle and off we went to search for Summit.
 
As we got to the eastern edge of the San Gabriel Mountains, we began to leave the fresh alpine air filled with the heavy scent of pine to make our descent to the Cajon Pass.  In losing 3000 feet of elevation, the vegetation began to change.  The scrub-like features of the mesquite and manzanita began to emerge.  Here and there you could see Yucca plants in bloom.  In the distance, there was also the occasional Joshua tree with its distinctive shape.  As we neared the Cajon pass the landscape was still mountainous, but the land began to feel more arid and desert-like.  Almost inhospitable.

​Just before we reached the Cajon pass, we passed Mormon Rocks.  These massive rocks jut out of the ground.  They look like massive stone slabs of various sizes that have been stacked together.  One is haphazardly on top of the other – with the entire stack tilted skyward at a steep angle.  The strata of the earth are clearly visible.  What was once hidden is now on full display.  It is very surreal.  By just looking at Mormon Rocks, you can “see” evidence that the San Andreas Fault lurks beneath.

​As we crossed the Cajon pass, we were doing what we loved - exploring brand new territory.  We were excited to consider the mountains as a place we could call home.  As we drove east the road twisted and turned.  It went in and around dry arroyos, and washes.
 
But, the land seemed more like a haven for roadrunners and rattlesnakes.  It was not a mountain paradise.   Sage brush and tumbleweeds dotted the landscape.  Not much else.

After seven miles, the road went straight and the land opened up into a low valley.  A mountain ridge was off in the distance.   Intermittently, there were horse ranches along the way.  But, the road was straight for as far as you could see.   The view was flat and empty.  There was the occasional dip in the road that made your stomach drop when you went through it, but there was no elevation gain.

​It sure didn’t look like there could be a “summit” nearby.

​Up head, and about where I thought the town should be, I spied a lone store with two gas pumps and a large dirt parking area.  There were several trucks and campers in the lot.  The rigs were hauling trailers filled with an assortment of watercraft – ranging from ski boats to fishing boats – with jet skis stuffed in between.  People milled around.  Checked on equipment.  Cinched down loads.  Filled up gas cans.
 
Oddly, it felt more like a pit stop - than a destination.
   
Now, if you have ridden a motorcycle, you know that it is nearly impossible to have any sustained meaningful conversation at 65 mph.   Also, before handheld GPS devices, you also know that a folded paper map can only be consulted when the motorcycle is stopped.  So, we pulled in to get our bearings; ask where the town of Summit was; and figure out what to do.
 
As we went inside, it felt like a general store.   There was organized clutter everywhere.  It seemed like there was a quick remedy for any emergency that a boater or a camper would require.  There was a snack bar of sorts, which specialized in quick fixes for the hungry traveler.   Gas was available for the vehicles.  “Facilities” were “around back” for those who needed them.
  
As we walked up to the counter, I felt a bit discombobulated.   “We are looking for the town of Summit?” I asked a guy with a scraggly beard.  The response was, “Summit?  I don’t know nothing about a town called Summit.”  Then, I countered, “Well, what’s this place called?”  The response was, “This here area is called Summit Valley.  It’s the only Summit that I know of.”
  
Lisa and I were momentarily taken aback.  Obviously, even if this was the town of Summit, it was not the kind of “summit” that we were hoping for.
  
But we quickly regrouped.  The urge to explore took over.  One of us said, “Well, while we’re here, let’s go a bit farther.”
 
While looking at the map we realized that there was a good-sized lake nearby.  It seemed to be the draw for all the boats and recreational equipment.    It was called Lake Silverwood.
  
Then, we spotted “the sign”.  It was green with white block lettering.  It read - Crestline 10.  Being a sucker for a name, I pointed to the sign and yelled to Lisa, “Let’s go there.”   She tapped me on the shoulder in agreement, and immediately Plan B was born.​

​The road that swept around Lake Silverwood towards Crestline was a bikers dream.  Sweeping curves, and open straightaways allowed me to “open up the throttle” and “lean into the curves”.   All of this while looking down on an unobstructed view of a shimmering lake, punctuated with the circular wakes of boats and skiers.  We learned later on that Lake Silverwood was the most western of a series of man-made reservoirs in the San Bernardino range.   You may have heard of some of the others: Lake Gregory, Lake Arrowhead, and Big Bear Lake.

As we rode, we stopped at every scenic pull-off along the way.  “Wow! This is great.” Lisa said.
​
After about five miles, and about a third of the way around the lake, it got even better.  Pines began to reappear.  Desert plants slowly disappeared.    Then, the road took a hard turn to the right.  Switchbacks appeared - along with a sign:  Tractor-Trailers Prohibited.  We began to climb significantly.  Up and up and up.
 
We were smiling by the time we entered the town of Crestline.
  
The forest was dense.  The pungent smell of pine filled the air.   Crestline felt like an alpine village - with Lake Gregory bordering the eastern edge of this town of 10,000.
 
Once we had driven around a bit, we said to each other.  “Let’s check out a realtor or two and see the price and availability of rentals.”  We loved what we saw.  It was quaint.  It felt like home.
 
By mid-afternoon, it was time to start the trip back to Pasadena.   We decided to go back a different way.  We wanted to head out of the mountains, and drive past the university where I worked.  On the trek back, we wanted to record and keep track of how long it all took.
 
On the way out of Crestline, the reason for its name became clear.

​The view was dramatic, and breath-taking.  For miles along the length of the crest of the mountain, there was a panoramic view of San Bernardino and the valley 4000 feet below.  The locals call it "The Rim”.  The two-lane road was appropriately called “The Rim-of-the-World Highway”.   (Read more about it in “Looking Back to See Ahead”.)  Much of the road was chiseled out of the mountain.  Other parts of it were perched on the side by a series of bridge overhangs.   The hang gliding launch site I could see from the university was nearby.  On rare crystal-clear days around sunset, the sun could be seen reflecting off the Pacific Ocean 40 miles away.

When we reached the four lane section of the highway, we began our descent “down the hill”.  The plummet down the mountain was quick.  The ride and view were thrilling.  But, I was sold on idea of living in Crestline when we arrived at the university.  The drive was less than twenty-five minutes.   This was twenty minutes shorter than what I was currently doing.
   
At that moment, a new commute was conceived.  A decision to move to Crestline got confirmed.
 
Three weeks later, at the beginning of June, we rented a house.  I moved into it to await our wedding day on June 27th.  The house we rented was perched on the side of the mountain.  A view of Lake Gregory was in the foreground.   A sunset view of the 10,000 foot summit of Mount Baldy was in the background.  It was picturesque.
  
In a very real sense, our search for summit was a complete success!

​We got what we were looking for.  While we didn’t actually live on a summit, or in a place called Summit, we still reaped the beauty of one.  We stayed in the house with a “summit view” for our first year of marriage. 

​We got to watch God’s evening light-show extravaganza – featuring a mountain peak – from the comfort of our own front deck.

In looking back, that first motorcycle ride through Summit Valley has become a special part of our story.  God used our passion to explore and our bent towards the mountains to introduce us to a mountain community that we didn’t even know existed.
 
In all, the mountains were our home for 15 years.  We loved living there.  Eventually, we both ended up working at the church there.  The relationships that we made through our church and community during those years were deep.   God used our time in Crestline to mature us and shape our ministry.  The aftershocks of those relationships still ripple – years later.
  
There is no doubt.  As we “searched for summit”, God navigated us to the “right place”.
 
During our years living “on the mountain”, we explored it heavily.  We often used the “back way” through Summit Valley for weekend escapes to the Sierras, and points north.
 
And, every time we pass through, we chuckle.  We are reminded of that Saturday trip in May, and the multitude of ways that decision has affected our lives.  All from a search – for a place called Summit.

“Will you marry me?”
 
As far as grammar goes, it’s a simple “Yes/No Question”.   
 
But, “in matters of the heart”, the effects and ramifications of this little question – are anything but simple.
 
It was at the stroke of midnight that this question - and its answer – was my sole priority.   
 
While revelers around the globe rang in the New Year, my task was simple.  My thoughts were focused.  My emotions were a mess.  As the “ball dropped” in New York City; and one calendar year flipped to the next; I was poised to “pop the question”.    
 
In the beginning “seconds” of the year 1987, I longed to hear one word from my girlfriend Lisa.
 
After three years of friendship, thousands of miles of distance, and a ton of wishfulness, I had found "the one".  I was “in love” and I was more than ready. 
 
Within a matter of seconds, as Lisa said, “Yes”, she shifted from being my girlfriend - to being my fiancé.  In that moment, we agreed to become “engaged”.  Like gears in an automobile’s transmission, we were now supposed to be in-sync.  Mesh.  But, let’s be honest, I did not recognize, nor was I prepared for the “engage” part of this season called “engagement”.   
 
Looking back, I am so thankful for God’s “six-month premarital workshop”.  But on January 1, 1987 – when Lisa enthusiastically said, “Yes!” - I sure didn’t see what was coming.  ​

When Lisa and I had decided to become “more than friends” in June of 1986, we made an agreement.  We agreed to “explore the potential of a long-term relationship” at least until the end of the year.  In other words, in spite of anything that “life would throw us” we were committed to stick it out – at least through December 31.
 
Our first three months of dating went along as planned. I stayed with my friend Mike, and his wife, in Pasadena. Life settled into a bit of a routine for both Lisa and me.  Lisa still struggled with the complications of her mystery illness.  We both worked for “temp agencies”.  While neither of us had much money, we had time.  And, we enjoyed a lot of motorcycle rides in the San Gabriel Mountains. 
 
The first challenge came at the end of September 1986. This challenge was “distance”. 
 
I started teaching English as a Second Language at a university in San Bernardino.  While this job gave me a steady income, the price was a two-and-a-half-hour roundtrip commute.  To make it more manageable, I started sleeping on the floor in a storage room in the garage, of my third family.  (See “Three Families & a Rock Band”.)  This was in Pomona, CA – about halfway between San Bernardino and Pasadena.  It reduced our time together to phone calls in the evenings, and dates on weekends.
 
The second challenge happened in early November.  This was “a lot more distance”. 
 
Lisa’s dad had a heart attack in Tennessee.  She immediately flew back to be with her family.  Her dad passed away after being on life-support for 10 days.  Partly to recuperate, and partly to support her mom, Lisa remained in Tennessee for the rest of 1986.   She decided to take time to grieve and to be with her family.  They were also dealing with the added loss of a 25-year-old brother who had been killed a year-and-a-half earlier in May 1985.
 
As December 1986 drew near, I was tired of the distance.  I wanted Lisa with me.  I was ready to “extend our commitment” and make our relationship permanent.  
 
So, I made a plan.
 
I flew back to Michigan.  Drove to Tennessee; met Lisa’s family; and spent Christmas with them. Then, Lisa rode back with me to Michigan to meet my family.  Finally, just after midnight on the first day of 1987, I borrowed the living room of my friends, Steve and Jan.  I told Lisa that I loved her and wanted to continue our relationship for the rest of our lives.  I asked her to marry me. 
 
Lisa said, “Yes”.  Wedded bliss was just around the corner.  Well – almost?
 
After getting engaged, Lisa and I hit the ground running.  We had a wedding to plan.  June 27, 1987 was the date we set for the big day.  For the next six months that date became the focus of our lives.  Plans were made.  Money spent.  A myriad of decisions got completed as the months marched along.  A wedding ceremony was being coordinated, and the foundations of a marriage were being formed.
 
Like lots of grooms, before and after me, I was not nearly as involved in the details of the wedding as the bride was.  I was a support, but more often than not, I was an observer.  When the topic of who would officiate our wedding came up, we worked together on the decision and chose the pastor of the church that Lisa had been attending for several years – which was becoming my church home too.  It was a fairly straightforward decision. 
 
But, when the topic of premarital counseling came up, it was anything but straightforward.  We found ourselves at completely opposite ends of the spectrum.
 
Lisa was predisposed to using a professional Christian counselor, and had a strong opinion on the topic.  Her best friend and roommate, and soon to be Matron-of-Honor, had been an intern at a Christian Counseling Center in Pasadena.  She would often “practice on” Lisa with her counseling techniques and personality testing.  Lisa had also received some counseling there with the director, Dr. David Gatewood.  She had developed a trusting relationship with him.  So, when it came to a decision on premarital counseling, Lisa felt that he was the best – and that’s what we should do.
 
I had a different opinion. 
 
All I saw was how much each session would cost – and the money we didn’t have.  I was also a bit baffled by the need to have a professional counselor tell us about marriage, especially since thousands of couples get married every weekend.  I thought, “What’s the big deal?”
 
This subject was my introduction to Lisa’s “determination” - and her well-developed analytical skills.  To say I was over-matched would be a gross understatement.   She knew what she wanted.  I did not. We were on the road to discovering something really important in our marriage.  Our decision-making styles, and some of our values, were very different. 
 
Trouble loomed on the horizon.
 
Before we were to attend our first session, we were each asked to separately take a personality test and send it in to the office.  I agonized over the test.  Believe it or not, I had made it through college; was in my 30s; and I had never taken a personality test before.  In fact, I had never been to a professional counselor.  It was not something I had ever seriously considered before.  
 
As I read through the test, it didn’t make any sense to me.  So, I randomly answered the questions.  Then, I went back and fiddled with some of my responses.   Then, I fiddled some more.  I wasn’t angry, or obstinate, or hostile.  I just didn’t understand the exercise, and felt that it was a waste of time. 
 
I can still remember meeting David Gatewood for the first time.  We had a 7:00 pm appointment – which was at the end of a full day of teaching, and in the midst of a 120 mile commute in Los Angeles traffic.   I was happy to be with Lisa, but I was tired, and very leery of this meeting.  My defenses were up.  I wasn’t relaxed at all.
 
After a prayer and a few minutes of introduction, Dr. Gatewood turned to me and without any further preamble, he asked, “So, why are you resistant to counseling?”
 
Whoa!!  Wait a minute!  What did you just say?
 
Stunned!  I couldn’t believe it.  I had barely spoken a few sentences to him.  I wondered, “How did he come up with that?”   “How can I be resistant, when I am sitting in the room – paying for this?   If I was truly resistant, I wouldn’t be here.  Right?”
 
I thought “How can I get us past this topic?”  So, I stalled.  I waffled.  I babbled.  But, nothing worked.  David Gatewood kept drilling down on why I was resistant to counseling.  He was fixated on it – while I flopped around like a fish out of water.  I was desperate to get off the hook.  If I had been on guard before the session, I was now totally off the charts.  My adrenaline was pumping.  My mind was racing.  “What did I do to deserve this?” 
 
This was certainly NOT what I expected premarital counseling to look like.  Because. This.  Was.  Awful!
 
Needless to say, my approach to the personality testing must have been more hostile than I had realized.  And since I was now in “full-blown-resistance-to-counseling-mode” - it took a couple of additional sessions to “work through my resistance” - before we got to the usual premarital topics – much to the consternation of my wallet. 
 
But, I learned some dramatic and invaluable things about myself during those sessions.  God used David Gatewood and the premarital counseling process to profoundly shape me to be a husband that Lisa could love, respect, and trust.  
 
Yes, I was resistant to counseling.  I am not a rebel by nature, so it wasn’t a conscious act.  But I didn’t like being pigeon-holed.  I didn’t like being stereotyped.  I didn’t want to be labelled because – intuitively - it always felt like the label was incorrect.  It restrained me, so I fought it in a passive-aggressive sort of way.   The way I answered the questions telegraphed a true underlying resistance.
 
The bottom line was: I didn’t know who I was. 
 
I was insecure, indecisive and tentative.  It was probably one of the reasons it took a while to attract a “Type-A” person like Lisa.  I was always “hedging my bets”.   In many respects I played it safe, and tried to minimize what I thought was “risk”.  I was slow to make decisions because I couldn’t give a reason.   I thought a man was supposed to be analytical, so when it came time to make a decision – I waited – until I thought I had enough reasons to proceed.    As a result, I could sometimes be a painfully slow decision-maker.
 
Lisa, on the other hand, was analytical; a first-born child; an extrovert; an administrator, a problem-solver; and a decision-maker.   She was a natural leader, and I was not.  And, I was starting to slip into a pattern of deferring decisions to her - until there was a defining moment in one session.
 
The most transforming moment of our relationship was when David Gatewood quietly turned to Lisa and said, “Do you realize Randy’s intuitive?  (Pause) Do you know what that means? (Pause)  He may not be able to give you a reason behind a decision, but he does have a “sense”.  The question is “Can you trust him?”  He went on, “Here’s an idea.  The next time you face a decision together, try it out.  Ask him what he feels.  Go with his “intuition”, and watch what happens.  See if you can trust him.”  
 
Knowing that it was okay to be intuitive empowered me.  I no longer needed to waffle or take my time.  I was released to trust my instincts.  Often throughout our marriage when faced with a decision, Lisa would ask me, “What does your gut tell you?”   We would pray and then trust my “God–given design”.  The freedom to be intuitive transformed my ability to lead and make decisions. 
 
And, by the way, nowadays, I have no problem making decisions.  While I still can’t always give a reason for the decision, that’s okay.  It’s just not how God made me.  And, you know what, I’m okay with that too – because I really like the way God made me.  And, I love how Lisa and I complement each other.
 
 
AS I REFLECT:
 
Our premartial counseling was absolutely awful.  It was grueling.  I hated it.  And, I’m probably one of the few grooms in the world that categorizes his engagement as part of a major valley experience. 
 
But, it was the best thing we ever did. 
 
I believe that it saved us years of grief in the long run.  I am very thankful for the ministry of David Gatewood.  He “engaged us”.  He helped us understand each other, and establish a godly and healthy marriage relationship.  I am very thankful for Lisa’s persistence to use David Gatewood. 
 
Yes, it was well worth the money we spent.  And, Yes, I would do it again.  Absolutely!!
 
Lisa finds it a bit ironic these days, when she hears me actively promoting premarital counseling to an engaged couple.  I am now an advocate.   She also finds it quite amusing to overhear me asking my coaching clients to take a personality profile, and then, to walk them through the results. 
 
She says, “If his clients only knew.”   Oh, I guess now they do.  Oops.
 
There are times when Lisa and I encounter an unusual situation in our marriage.  In a moment of levity you may hear me jokingly say, “We need to ask David Gatewood for a refund.  He never prepared us for THIS topic?” 
 
But, all joking aside, the skills that we had to painfully work through before we were married were foundational in helping us establish our marriage.  They truly helped us to “be engaged”. 
 
They have served us well over the years. 
 
And, they are priceless.

​Mt. Shasta stood like a quiet sentinel - dominating the eastern horizon. 
 
The mountain was majestic – draped with white snow - in vivid contrast to the late afternoon sky of early summer.  The view was spectacular.  On any other day, it would have been “a photo-op waiting to happen”, but not on this day. 

​I was preoccupied with a payphone.  It was 50 miles south of the Oregon border, at a rest area just north of Mt. Shasta, California.  Vehicles whizzed by as they picked up downhill speed on Interstate-5.  But, my vehicle was not moving.  It was stopped.  More accurately, it was cooling off.  And, Los Angeles was still 600 miles away.

​The phone call was to my girlfriend, Lisa.  As she answered the phone, I had three minutes to blurt out my plight.  There was no preamble. The message was straight and to the point.  “Lisa, pray.  Something’s wrong with the Horizon.”

​Now, let me clarify what I mean. 

For the past 150 miles, the car’s “red warning light” had been coming on with increasing frequency.   It was crystal clear.  I was in “a pickle”.   Something was really wrong with my Horizon – my 1979 Plymouth Horizon.
 
The entire month of June 1986 had been a whirlwind. Pure and simple!  At the beginning of the month, I was flying south to move north – intending to ride a motorcycle.  Instead, by the end of the month, I was flying north to move south – while driving a car.  Whew!
 
After Lisa and I decided to start dating, I made plans to hightail it back to Oregon.  I wanted to get my things and move back to southern California.  Once I got to Oregon, I got a lead on a car to buy - which made it easier to move my stuff.  

​While living in Portland, I had gotten to know Dave and Julie.  They were friends of my friends, Eric and Cindy.  Partly because of my influence, Dave and Julie were heading off to teach English in China for a year.  They were using the same organization that I had used.  I was aware that they were downsizing, and that they were selling a car.  It was a faded blue 1979 Plymouth Horizon Hatchback.

Most importantly to me, the Plymouth Horizon was affordable.  In other words, they weren’t asking much for it.   It came with lots of receipts and Dave’s full disclosure of its condition.  He told me that the engine had recently blown a head gasket, but that it had been repaired.  Dave had driven it a few weeks, and had no issues.  I drove it around a couple of days, as well.  I didn’t have any issues either.  I needed a car to drive.  This met my need.  So I bought it, loaded it up, and got ready to head south.
 
On, Friday, June 27, 1986, I left Portland for what I thought was going to be a routine trip to Los Angeles.  I. Was. Wrong! 
 
The first sign of trouble occurred about 200 miles south of Portland.  Just north of Roseburg, Oregon,   the temperature light started to flicker red.  This happened a few times.  I reduced my speed, somehow thinking that might help.  But soon enough, it burned a steady bright red – mercilessly.  Fortunately, the radiator wasn’t boiling over, so I waited for the engine to cool a bit and limped to the next exit.  Since this was before cell phones, I looked for the nearest pay phone, and contemplated my options.   The exit had gas and food, but no mechanic.  I felt it was too far to go back to Portland.  But, I needed help, so I made some calls.
 
Over the next hour, the engine cooled.  I called several friends in Portland.  And at some point, I talked to Dave.   He connected me with a distant aunt and uncle who lived in Roseburg.   They were an older couple.  They took me in, fed me, and gave me a place to spend the night.  I was treated like family.  During supper we talked about my time in China, and about what might be wrong with the car.  After talking about the car, we decided to replace the thermostat. 
 
The next morning, Dave’s uncle took me to get a thermostat, and helped me put it in.  After running the engine for a while, it seemed like the problem was solved.  So, late-morning, after thanking them profusely, I was on my way. 
 
Everything ran well, for about 125 miles - until I got to the mountains.  The light came on again, so I nursed the car over the California border.  At the second rest area, I knew I was in trouble.   That’s when I found a pay phone, and called Lisa.  I needed her encouragement, support, and PRAYER.   
 
After letting the engine cool for an hour, I decided that I had to try to keep going.  The road was mostly downhill, which was good.  But, the temperature light came on again not far down the road.  This was not good.
 
As I approached Mt. Shasta, California, it was getting dark.  I knew I needed to do something, but I didn’t know what.  I didn’t have much money, but since the light had come on again, I knew I had to stop.  
 
I remember stopping at the end of the last exit for the town.  I pulled off the shoulder near the stop sign and prayed.  It was pretty simple.  “Lord, help me.”  
 
After praying, I looked around me to get my bearings, and I noticed a small church just down the road. It was Saturday evening, and night was falling quickly.  A light was on in the church.  As I went to the door, I could hear someone playing the piano.  The front door was locked, so I banged on it.  Loudly!  Surprisingly, a young man in his early twenties answered the door, and I proceeded to plead my case.  I blurted, “I’m a Christian.  I taught English in China last year.  I am moving from Portland to LA, and I am having car trouble.  Do you know of anyone who could help me?” 
 
And, then I took a deep breath and waited.  I’m really not sure what I expected.
 
Amazingly, the young man listened patiently and sympathetically to my plight.   He said that he was the pastor’s son, and that they lived next door in the parsonage.   He said, “Let’s go talk to my parents and see what they think.” 
 
So, we went next door and he introduced me to his parents.  
 
I told the family my story.  They welcomed me and invited me to join them for fried chicken and all the fixings.  Somehow, I had arrived just in time for supper.  As we talked around the table, his mom said something very interesting.   She said, “God prompted me to clean our camper today in case we needed it.  I think you’re the reason.” 
 
So, I spent the night in the camper – sensing that my stop was not a surprise to God.  It certainly wasn’t to the pastor’s wife.
 
The next day was Sunday and I went to church with them.  The pastor gave me part of the service to speak about my time in China.  By way of introduction, he told the congregation about my car trouble.  After the service a man came to me.  He lived in Dunsmuir, which was 10 miles south.  He said that he was a mechanic and if I was still having trouble when I drove past the exit to feel free to stop and he would look at my engine.
 
By mid-afternoon, after being thoroughly welcomed by the congregation, and fed and pampered by the pastor and his family, I decided to continue south.  Before I left, the pastor assured me that it was okay to stop in Dunsmuir if I was still having problems.   So, off I went - again.
 
By the time I got to Dunsmuir, the “red light” was coming on relentlessly.  I knew that I needed a mechanic to look at my problem. 
 
I found the mechanic’s house.  He looked at my engine, and heard what I had done already.  He recommended that we take the car to his shop the next morning.  So, what was oddly starting to become a pattern, happened again:  the family fed me supper; listened to my stories; gave me a bed for the night; and worked on my car the following morning.
 
The next day, the mechanic took the valve covers off, and examined the work that had been previously done on the head.  He then re-torqued the bolts and tested the cooling system.  No charge.  It seemed like it was fixed.  I thanked him profusely, and by mid-afternoon, I was on my way – again.
 
As I headed towards Sacramento, I took my time.  I decided not to push it. I stopped frequently and kept my speed near the minimum.  As night fell, the air cooled off.   The red light didn’t come on, so I kept driving.  I stopped at nearly every rest area along the way to let the car cool and grab a catnap.  The night-time radio talk-shows kept me awake.  I drove on deep into the night.
 
As I got near Sacramento, I knew I had to stop and sleep in a bed.  I also could tell that the problem wasn’t completely solved.  While the red light wasn’t coming on, the radiator hoses weren’t warm either.  I was sensing that the engine was surviving by being “somewhat” air cooled. 
 
It was at that point, I had an “idea”.  Hmm! I wonder where that came from.  I recalled that three years earlier, before I went to China, I had been a groomsman in a friend’s wedding.   The wedding was held in the bride’s home church, which was in some burg south and west of Sacramento.   I thought if I could just find the church, I might be able to get the bride’s family – or someone to help me.  Again, this was before cell phones and GPS.
 
Around 4:00 in the morning, I finally stumbled upon the church and pulled into the parking lot.  I parked in a back corner by some trees.  It was Tuesday morning so I figured that I would wait and hope that someone from the church staff would open up the office.  It was cool enough that I rolled up my windows, locked the door, and promptly fell asleep.
 
Around 8:30am, I woke up to a policeman knocking on my car window.  
 
I could see people peering out the church office window as the officer sternly asked what I was doing.  I must have looked a mess, but suddenly the adrenaline flowed and my tongue was loosened.  I babbled about having car trouble and being in a wedding at this church three years earlier, and could someone call the bride’s family and see if they could help me.  After hearing my wild story, the policeman seemed sympathetic.  He talked to someone in the church office and they made a phone call. 
 
Within minutes of the phone call I got a welcomed surprise. 
 
I was invited into the church.  Then, the phone was handed to me.  Not only did the bride’s family get reached, but low and behold, my friend, Mike, was on the other end of the call.  He and his wife were up from southern California to visit her parents over the Fourth of July holiday, and they had just arrived the night before.  Hmm!  “How coincidental was that?”
 
Mike gave me directions to his in-law’s house.  I got a bit more sleep, and then I started to reconnect with them.  I had not seen Mike and his wife since their wedding.   So, I told them about my time in China, my budding relationship with Lisa, and of course, my drive from Portland.   As we talked about my engine problem, a mechanic was recommended. 
 
I also learned something interesting.  Mike and his wife were living in Pasadena – two blocks from Lisa.  “REALLY?”   “That’s curious.”
 
The next day, the main event was to get my car fixed.  The verdict was that the radiator was plugged. I was sent to a radiator shop, and the radiator got unplugged, painted, and was like new.   Mike also helped me with some desperate funding to get it fixed.  In talking over the sequence of repairs with the mechanic, he affirmed that each of the repairs likely needed to be done.  I am guessing God knew this. 
 
After a couple of days with Mike, his wife and her family, I finished the last 350 miles of my trip.  I made it safely the rest of the way.  This time, the engine problem was truly solved.   In fact, for the next three years the Plymouth Horizon traversed the mountains of southern California – at times, in 100 degree heat - without ever overheating again!
 
As I think back, “My Plymouth Horizon really did affect “my spiritual horizon”.   The road trip has become a “spiritual marker” for me.  It was similar to Lisa’s “faith trip” to China.  It’s become one of those events to “look back on” and remember a “situation” when I was totally dependent, and God chose to meet my need in a pretty miraculous way.  Remembering encourages me and builds up my faith.  I am hoping that it builds up yours too.
 
Oh, by the way, there "just happened" to be an additional benefit of this trip. 

In reconnecting with Mike and his wife, they offered me a place to stay in Pasadena.   For three months that summer, I slept on a foam pad in their living room while I worked for a “temp agency”.   As the second family in “Three Families & a Rock Band”, they helped me get my bearings, as I adjusted back to living in southern California. 
 
Importantly though, with Lisa living only a couple of blocks away, she and I began to spend time together as a couple.  And, those three months became foundational to our love story - because later on that fall, two things happen to put distance in our relationship, and  substantially impact our future.   

​Stay tuned!
 
​
Note: If you are one of those “strangers” who assisted me on that trip.  Thank you.  Know that God used you in a special way.

​​Thirty-three years ago today, on June 27, 1987, a second Carr got added to the ride.

Note: We used my friend Steve's Honda Goldwing to ride away from our wedding.  Steve rode it from Michigan to California, especially to be in our wedding.  

​Thanks to everyone that was there that day, and to everyone who has been "a part of our ride" - before, and since. ​
​
​Thank you Lord for using a motorcycle to bring us together!   And, for your sustaining grace and guidance throughout our journey. 

Lisa and I have been blessed!

​
​

​Before I left for China for the first time, I had a choice to make.  I needed a place to store my motorcycle. Without knowing it, this decision was to become very strategic in my future relationship with Lisa.  
 
As I look back, I find it curious how I came to park my motorcycle in Pasadena, California - of all places.  After all, I'd only lived there six months.

-​Most of my peer relationships at the time were like me.  They were in transition.  Very few of them had the capacity to store a motorcycle. I needed someone who wasn’t likely to move – like a homeowner - with a stable job!   
 
“Somehow” I had a unique relationship with one of my history professors from Biola University.  I enjoyed his classes, and he liked my writing style for the research papers that I had written.  He and his wife lived quite a ways from the university.  Of all places, they “happened” to live in Pasadena, two blocks from the end of the Rose Parade route. 
 
As I was “on hold” for five months preparing to go to China, I took some graduate courses, and began to settle in Pasadena.  My professor learned I was in the area; was interested in what I was doing; and periodically invited me to his home.  As time drew near to leave for China, he and his wife asked if they could help in any way.  I told them that I needed a place to store my motorcycle.  They said, “Keep it here.”  They were glad to store it behind their garage. 
 
During my “comings and goings”, they were an incredible support.  What originally started out as six months of storage, eventually ended up to be two-and-a-half years. 

A month after I arrived in China for the second time, Lisa came to China.  She was at the tail-end of her six weeks when she showed up with a delegation to visit our university in southern China.  It was days after my 30th birthday.  I was excited to see her – even if for only two days.     
 
It felt like it was our final time together, though. 
 
For the next 21 months, Lisa went her way, and I went mine.  We wrote each other some.  Letters were sporadic.  She didn’t want to lead me on.  Her writing was friendly, encouraging – and platonic.  While I had hoped for more – eventually – my resolve waned.  And, I started moving on.
 
Late fall of 1985, I returned to the USA after travelling extensively throughout China, Tibet, and Japan. 
 
I needed a place to land to readjust and heal up.  My lungs had taken a beating from the tropical molds and second-hand smoke.  I was “just plumb exhausted”, and in need of some recuperation.  I also needed to sort out life and figure out “What’s next?”
 
God provided the perfect place.
 
Eric and Cindy lived in Portland, Oregon.  They were dear friends from Biola.  I had been in their wedding several years earlier.  When they learned that I was going to China, they wanted to help.   Cindy monitored my bank account, and paid bills for me.   My mail was routed through their address, so that it could be sorted, screened, and forwarded.   
 
When I was getting ready to return to the United States, Eric and Cindy offered me a place to live.  I jumped at it.  They were the first family in “Three Families & a Rock Band”.  Because of them, Oregon became my “home base”.  That is – for everything except the motorcycle. 
 
By the time I finally arrived “home” in Oregon, it was early November 1985.  Due to the time of the year, it was too risky to consider riding a motorcycle through the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon.  To get around, Eric and Cindy let me use their second car.  So, I called my former professor in Pasadena, and got the okay to keep the motorcycle parked behind his garage for a while longer.  
 
Once I was settled in Portland, I looked for work, but it was too late in the semester to teach English to international students.  I began to piece together part-time work to scrape together some cash.  I had “My Daze with Art” while being a security guard at an art museum.  I learned a lot about family life; became “Uncle Randy” to their young daughters; and began to find my way.
 
Now, this next part is tricky.  Remember, I was on a quest. I wanted to be married, OR I wanted to stop looking, by my 33rd birthday.  The clock was ticking.  October 4, 1987 was my deadline.  I was “looking for the writing on the wall”.   You know, a sign that said, "SHE'S THE ONE!"
 
Low and behold, soon after I got settled, I discovered that a friend from college had recently taken a job and relocated to Portland. She and I had been good friends for a number of years.  As we reconnected, we began to do things together.  She was well aware of Lisa, and my past interest.  It was no secret.  Yet, Lisa had had nearly three years to act, so “it seemed like that ship had sailed.” 
 
As the summer of 1986 approached, I felt like I needed to come up with a long-term plan.  I was leaning towards staying in Portland.  I figured if circumstances had put my friend and me in the same city, I didn’t want to “miss the signs”.  Cautiously and hesitantly, we started easing towards “being more than friends”.  
 
To complete my relocation to Portland, there was just one more thing I needed to do. 
 
You guessed it.  I needed to go to southern California and get that PARKED motorcycle. 
 
In early June 1986, I decided to book a one-way flight to Los Angeles, and ride my motorcycle back to Oregon.  The closest airport to Pasadena was Burbank.  I needed someone to pick me up.   Lisa was a logical option.  She and the motorcycle were both in the same general area of Los Angeles.  Lisa had also borrowed some of my backpacking gear.  I had continued to stay in touch with her – much like we did in China, so it made sense to contact her first.
 
I took two weeks off from the art museum. 
 
The plan was to spend seven or eight days in Los Angeles.  Get the motorcycle running. Wrap things up.  Then, take the remaining days to ride the motorcycle north to Portland.  I contacted Lisa and asked if she could pick me up; take me to my motorcycle; and arrange for me to stay with some guys from her church.
 
Unbeknownst to me, a "conversation thread" had been developing for a while between Lisa and her best friend.  Uvon was Lisa’s former roommate.  She had recently gotten married.  Uvon knew me from the many times that I stopped by their apartment to pick up Lisa for motorcycle rides.  When the topic of guys came up, Uvon began to encourage Lisa.  She would ask, “What about Randy?”

The day to fly south arrived!  
 
Evidently, Lisa HAD pondered the question, “What about Randy?”  When she met me at the airport, she was “extremely enthusiastic” in her greeting.  Over the next few days, she let me know in no uncertain terms that she was very interested in me romantically.  She was very clear.  She didn’t want me heading back north without having “all of the facts”.    
 
I also learned that my interest in Lisa was “not in the past” as much as I had thought.  She still very much had my heart.
 
Suffice it to say, the motorcycle never left Los Angeles.   I guess you could say that "I saw the sign”.  I got the message loud and clear.

I made a complete U-turn – in more ways than one.  Within a month, I had quit the art museum, flown back to Portland; bought a car; had a tearful talk; and packed up to move back to southern California.

Oh, and Lisa and I started dating.
 
When we look back, there’s no doubt that God used a parked motorcycle to bring us together.  And, needless to say, we’re both glad he did!


Stay Tuned:  The next three stories all occur within the year before we get married. They are foundational, and shaped us regarding relationships: with God, each other, and others. 
 
Of course, God still continued to use the motorcycle to move us in some “interesting” ways. 
 

Next:
-Something’s Wrong with the Horizon
-Why Are You Resistant to Counseling?
-Searching for Summit
 
Note: There's a special picture that we're going to “sneak in” on June 27.  You won’t want to miss it!

Photo: Carr Collection

​Most motorcycle purists would say that my first motorcycle barely qualified as one.  It was a Honda 110.  Don’t laugh!  It wasn’t big, but it eased me into the world of motorcycles.  I was 22 years old and living in the Dominican Republic (DR).  The Honda 110 was a transportation staple in the DR.  Lots of people owned one in this Caribbean country.  They were common, economical, and you could drive one any time of the year. 
 
I figured that since I was going to live in the Dominican Republic for at least a year, I needed to have my own transportation.  Without a lot of thought – I bought my first motorcycle.  While I had fun riding it, its purpose was still mostly utilitarian.  The decision was driven by a practical need to “get around”.  It was a tool, more than it was a toy.

After the Dominican Republic, I moved to California to go back to college.  This happened in 1979.
 
Warm weather, dear friends, and a college that accepted my transfer from a Bible school, drew me to southern California – like a magnet.  Believe it or not, sunny southern California was the most northern point that I lived during this ten-year period.  The weather made it easy to drive a motorcycle year-around, so my tenure with motorcycles expanded to a Yamaha 650.  Then, a few years later, I graduated to a new Suzuki 1000.
 
1979 was also the year of the oil embargo.  There were long lines at the pump.  Good gas mileage was a plus.  Owning a motorcycle also began to shape, and expose, my “philosophy of life”.   I loved being frugal.  I loved being practical – and maybe a bit outside of the box.
  
As one year of motorcycle ownership stretched into several, I was starting to adopt a mind-set.  It was this.  “If I was to get married, I wanted the type of woman who was comfortable hiking, camping, backpacking, travelling internationally – and riding a motorcycle.”  I began to say this - out loud.
 
After graduating from college in 1982, I worked a year.  Twice during that year, I seriously considered replacing the motorcycle.  I was accumulating some savings, so, I thought it was time for an “enclosed vehicle”.   I got real close to signing the paperwork on a Porsche.  I had found “the car”, but I couldn’t pull the trigger.  A few months later, I considered a 4WD Pickup.  Again, I found “the truck”.  I test drove it, but somehow I still couldn’t pull the trigger.  A “little voice” kept saying “No”!  Hmm? 
 
Then May 1983 arrived, and I decided to get an Intercristo application.  I wanted to see what jobs might be available internationally.  It was then that my friend Nancy told me to “just check the box” regarding Teaching English as a Second Language.  A few weeks later, I got “THE PHONE CALL” from Lisa, the recruiter.  Suddenly, within 15 minutes - I had no problem pulling the trigger.  
 
​Just like that - I was on my way to teach English in China for a year. 
 
Well, not quite!   It seems like some “pieces to the puzzle” needed to happen before I left for China – and these pieces helped to set the stage for our love story.   
 
Piece #1: I kept the motorcycle. 

​I didn’t try to sell my bike before I left for China.  I had bought the bike brand new three years earlier.  It was in great shape.  For some reason I didn’t feel the need to sell it – and liquidate my assets.  For that matter, I didn’t even have a plan for any of my stuff.  The decision to teach in China had come together so quickly, that I was just winging it, and doing the next thing.   
 
In July 1983, I moved into a campus dormitory to begin two months of training to learn how to teach English as a Second Language in mainland China.  Because it was only 40 minutes away from where I had lived for four years, it was an easy decision to keep the bike with me in Pasadena.

​The campus was nestled at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains, near Pasadena.  I knew my way around the area, so I started giving motorcycle rides to the other teachers when we are not in training.   It was a quick and easy trip to “escape” to the mountains.  I loved the area, and was glad I had the bike.
 
As the training was winding up, the group started preparing for departure.  To celebrate the completion of our training, our instructor, who was a professor at USC, invited the team to her house about 40 minutes away.  To get there, rides were coordinated.  A shuttle system was devised.  I offered to take someone on my motorcycle.  Irma was quick to take me up on the offer.
 
Irma was a 70 year old grandma.  She had been raised in China.  She was returning to China after being expelled 40 years earlier.  Irma was having the time of her life.  It was her first time to ride a motorcycle, and she wanted a ride to the party.  She loved it.
 
At the same, Lisa, the recruiter, was at the party.  Lisa had just arrived back in California.  She had not been at the training because she had gone back to Tennessee for six weeks of bed rest to recuperate from the intensity of recruiting 40 teachers.  It was her first “in person” interaction with the teachers that she had recruited.  Everyone knew her.  And, at some subconscious level I observed a few things.  Lisa was: not married; around my age; and easy on the eyes.  But, I was heading to China.  Oh, well!
 
At the end of the party, there was a dilemma.   As rides were being determined for the 40-minute trip back to campus, I asked who would like to ride back with me.  Poor Irma desperately wanted to ride back, but she didn’t want to be greedy and monopolize the opportunity.  So, Irma politely asked if anyone else would like to ride back with me.  Without any hesitation, Lisa stepped forward and forcefully said, “I’d like to ride.”  I didn’t need to have her say it twice.   So, she got on the back, and away we went on our first ride together.
 
Piece #2: The start of my program in China was delayed.    
 
Right after the departure party, I received some very significant news.  The university in China, where I was assigned to teach, needed to postpone the start of the program for five months. They wanted me to start teaching at the end of January, not the beginning of September.  They asked me, “Can you wait, and come later?”  Oh my, that was unexpected.
 
At this point, I was committed to teaching in China.  I didn’t really have any other options, so I said that I would wait, and I began to figure out what I was going to do for five months.  Hmm!  I’m sure glad that I kept the motorcycle.  Glad I had some savings.  But, what was I going to do while “killing time”?
 
Piece #3: I enrolled in three graduate-level courses in Teaching English as a Second Language.
 
On the campus where our training had been held, there was a university program that offered a graduate degree in Teaching English as a Second Language.  I knew that I needed lots more training in ESL.  So, I signed up for three graduate classes.  I switched dorm rooms, and settled in for the semester.  But, most importantly, this “plan” kept me close to the China office – and Lisa.  And, you bet, I didn’t twiddle my thumbs, nor did I waste using the motorcycle.
 
Piece #4: I made myself available for “motorcycle outings” with my new friend, Lisa.
 
Since I was the only teacher who stayed behind, and I was taking classes nearby, I regularly “reported” to the China office after classes.  I hung out with the staff: Lisa, and two married gentlemen.   But, let’s be honest, I was an opportunist.   My target was Lisa.   
 
Lisa and I had some wonderful “outings” on the motorcycle.  The Angeles Crest Highway above the Rose Bowl was a biker's dream.  The settings for our jaunts had the potential of being really romantic.  We had lots of picnic lunches.   As a result, an interesting dynamic developed during the fall of 1983. 
 
I found the woman!  She was gorgeous; had similar values; and she loved riding a motorcycle.  She was perfect!  Just what I was looking for!  There was just one thing that was missing.  While she loved riding on the motorcycle with its owner - she wasn’t romantically interested in the owner - himself. 
 
That fall, Lisa and I spent a lot of time together.  God used a motorcycle, and some unexpected circumstances, to help us form a deep friendship.  We liked spending time together.  Yet, I was heading to China, and she was busy recruiting more teachers for the following year.   While I really wanted a relationship with her, she didn’t encourage me much – beyond “begging for a motorcycle ride”.
 
So, after five months, I parked the motorcycle; drained the fuel; and I hopped on a plane to China.  Lisa and I wrote regularly.  We remained good friends.  Life went on.
 
End of story.  Well, not quite.  It seems that I still had a small “foot in the door” to Lisa’s heart.

​The recruiter was in agony. 
 
She had been for weeks.    It was a quandary - a dilemma.  As she prayed, she searched her soul.  “God what do you want me to do?”  As a recruiter, she had a spot to fill.  As part of her job, she did this all the time.  But, this time – was different.  The decision didn’t affect others. The airline ticket to China was not for someone else.  This time - it was for her. 
 
The decision couldn’t be put off any longer.  It was time to decide.  Was it “go, or no go?”

Physically, there was no way Lisa could endure the rigors of travelling throughout China for six weeks.  Food made her sick.  Severe headaches, all-over-pain, and flu-like fatigue were ever present. Her struggle had been steadily getting more and more pronounced for the past twelve years – since she was fifteen.  As a “Type-A personality”, she pushed through her symptoms every day - treating them as an annoyance.  But, energy and pain where increasingly becoming problems she couldn’t ignore. 
 
Doctors had no answers.  With marginal amounts of stamina, she limped through eight hours at work.  She survived the debilitating fatigue by taking intermittent naps.  Whatever the Apostle Paul meant when he referred to his “thorn in the flesh” – this was Lisa’s.  Her health was a governor. It controlled the throttle for her energy.  And, it was severely affecting what she could do.
 
How could she possibly consider a trip to China?  Even for six weeks?
 
But, Lisa had oodles of drive and conviction.  She believed in her heart that God speaks and wants to be heard.  She believed that God wants to reveal himself, and make known his purposes to his children. She also believed that if God called her to do something, he would provide.  
 
But, oh boy, her beliefs were really being challenged this time!  Her faith was getting stretched.
 
At her core, the dilemma was this.  “If God really speaks, has He truly called her to go?” The consequences would be enormous if she were hearing wrongly, or being presumptuous.  But the "age old question" she wrestled with was this, “How do I really know that I have heard from God?” 
​
The answer came one morning during the quiet of her daily prayer time.  She was reminded of the story in the book of Joshua.  “As soon as the priests carrying the ark reached the Jordan and their feet touched the water's edge, the flowing water stood still.”  Joshua 3:15. The message burned strongly in her spirit.   She sensed God saying, “Lisa, my provision will come for you by faith – when you leave the United States, and your feet step in China”.
 
Like the priests at the Jordan River, was she willing to obey?  Was she willing to trust the voice she believed was God, and step into the river?  Would God ask such a thing?  Would God make his voice known?
 
There were tons of questions and doubts.  Yikes, this really is a dilemma!

​Yet, as she prayed and confirmed it with others, Lisa felt that God was telling her to go.  So, she trusted him to protect her.  She committed. She bought the ticket, and got ready to go.  
​
​​The day to depart arrived.

​Bags were packed. The last of “her special food” was eaten.  She boarded the official airline of the People’s Republic of China: CAAC.  As she buckled in, the engines spooled up for the 16 hour flight to Beijing.  She was 100% committed.  There was no turning back.  She anxiously waited.

​A few hours into the flight, the flight attendants began to roll the food service carts down the aisle.  Entrees were delivered.  Lisa prayed, and with her first bite – stepped into her Jordan River. 
 
Hours later, she felt fine.  Then, the next meal was served, and she ate again.  She experienced none of her normal food-sensitivity-symptoms. No debilitating pains. No migraine headaches. No achy flu-like fatigue.

​During the entire six weeks Lisa ate what was put in front of her – no questions asked.  No special needs.  She travelled a rigorous itinerary. She crisscrossed the Chinese mainland - visiting teaching teams in eight cities.  She saw first-hand where she was placing the teachers she recruited.  She also sat in on meetings with university officials, and dignitaries. 

​At every stop, she attended a formal banquet! 

During the entire trip she did not have any of her usual symptoms.  God provided for her.  When she visited the university where I taught, I watched her eat without restraint.
​
​Lisa rejoiced! I was amazed!  She was healed.
 
Once she returned to the United States, “the waters of the Jordan returned”.  Lisa wondered if God had healed her permanently of this illness.  She continued eating as she had.  She did not eat a restricted diet – and she “got sicker than a dog”.

There is no doubt that God provided for Lisa in a miraculous way.  She was healed.  And, it was for six weeks!     
 
Over and over again, God has used this event to remind us that he was at work then – just as he is now. This is Lisa’s testimony: "God is the God of the miraculous. He speaks and can be heard. And, when God calls, He provides."  As God has called her to minister in different ways and locations, we have seen him repeatedly enable, heal, and provide – even in the midst of physical pain and suffering.
 
While we do not understand Lisa’s on-going health issues, we know that God can be trusted.  We know that God has been at work in our journey so far.  Telling this story has been an encouraging reminder to both of us.  It helps us to remember that just as we trusted God to guide in the past, he can be trusted to guide us in the future. 
 
This builds up our faith.  We hope it builds yours as well.

​Next: The next four posts tell our love story.  Unfortunately, Lisa was more enamored with someone’s motorcycle than its charming owner – for quite a while.  But, hey, it allowed “for a foot in the door” and still had a happy ending.  She ended up with a diamond ring on her finger - eventually.  And, I got another "Carr".