Chronicle of Matt's Journey to Missoula: Part the 2nd

Beloved,

Please allow me to begin this second mass-email with both apologies and thanks. My apologies go out to all those who have hitherto been emailing, calling or texting me and not yet gotten a response. Due to the literally vast distances which I had to drive across Thursday, Friday and Saturday I was compelled to keep my cell phone turned off for much of the trip to conserve the battery for my periodic texting updates to multiple people. This has caused a plethora of voicemails to compile, to which I have listened, but have not yet been able to respond. Likewise my gmail inbox has become filled with emails which have blessed me but to which I have not yet responded. Please accept my apologies for that, and trust that I will get to each voicemail and email within the next 72 hours. My cell phone reception appears to be sporadic and only partial here, which may impede phone calls, so please pass on this apology and news of my safety to everyone at GIBC to cover them. Also please accept my deep thanks for all the encouraging words, as they surely helped keep me optimistic!

That being said, let me tell the second half of the story. After sending out my first mass-email update on Saturday morning, I promptly took advantage of the hotel's continental breakfast (hot oatmeal, honey and peanut butter... props to El Jeffe for that healthy recipe!) and then hit the road. It took me approximately half an hour to get from Sturgis, SD, to the Wyoming border. It was a beautiful experience in the predawn greyness, as the last stretches of the Black Hills unfolded to the south and west of my car. Just as I reached the Wyoming border I looked up into my rearview mirror and was awestruck at the sight of the brilliant red sun rising over the Black Hills behind me. It radiated so brightly out across the sky with a vibrance I have rarely experienced, and the sentiment 'the rising on the third day' struck me. As there was not a single other vehicle within sight I felt little danger in stopping my car on the interstate, rolling down the window and trying to photograph the sunrise behind me. This trick, while working that time, would backfire later, sadly, when (attempting to repeat the act) a strong gust of wind tore the camera from my hand.

Onward I pressed from that point into Wyoming, passing through all manner of evocative country. For some while I was plunged into deeply scarred topography, not unlike the Badlands and Black Hills, then passed into a long stretch of high plains which would prove the rival of Minnesota and South Dakota in the sheer vastness of their expanse. Eventually the terrain rose again, and I passed through a stretch of high and harshly broken territory; not, I believe, the Rockies, but rather foothills stretching far out towards the Plains. While coming through this stretch I had a most frightening experience, which can only be described as a miracle in the most literal sense.

When I crossed into Wyoming I had half a tank of gas, and was continuing my average mileage of 325 miles to the tank. After driving approximately 150 miles my gage showed that I was dipping well below the 1/4 tank point, but quite happily there was a rest stop only 8 miles away, with a gas station included. Feeling no concern I continued rolling, and arrived at the rest stop with about 1/8 of a tank left. Horrifically, as I prepared to pull off the interstate and into the rest stop, I saw that there were gates barring the access road, and a sign which read 'Closed.' Having no recourse, I was obligated to remain on the interstate, since I couldn't pull off and refuel. A definite concern roused within me, but was put partially to ease a moment later when I saw a sign proclaiming in large letters 'Powder River Rest Area 35 Miles: Gas.' I thought to myself 'Praise God, I can refill there. I should be able to just make it.' 35 miles was a long way on 1/8th of a tank, but I offered up a prayer and pushed ahead.

By the time I reached this Powder River Rest Area my fuel gage was, quite literally, riding the little red E line. I turned off my cruise control, pulled off the interstate, and coasted down the slope and into the gas station. I offered my thanks to God for the perfect timing of this little gas station, and promised that I'd learned my lesson and for the rest of the trip wouldn't let the tank dip below 1/2 to ensure nothing like this predicament happened again! Just as I got out and prepared to pump the gas into my car, a man came out of the gas station and shouted over to me 'I'm Out of Gas. There's none, they don't deliver to me in this weather!'

Time stood still for a moment. I'm quite sure my heart stopped beating, although the physiology of the matter might be difficult to explain, I've no doubt. My first response was to accuse him of having a rustic joke at my expense, hoping that he did that to all out of state cars he saw pull in. One quick look at his face, however, confirmed the veracity of his statement. As if out of an overdramatized film the sun in that same moment got blotted out by thick white clouds, and within seconds snowflakes began falling. I asked him if he had any gas a'tall, perhaps in a can somewhere. He shook his head and told me I'd have to go on to the town of Buffalo, 31 miles further west on the interstate. It was one of those moments where your flesh demands a reaction of outrage and frustration to mask the gnawing fear in your belly as you realize you may well be trapped in the middle of Wyoming during a snowstorm with no gasoline and no hope of getting any for a day or longer, not to mention no cell phone reception.

Instead of giving into my infamous temper, I chose rather to combat my fear with my faith. Christ has never once failed me, nor forsaken me, and despite the piercing cold and looming desperation of the situation I resolved myself to press forward in faith. I got back into my car, turned off both the cruise control and heater to conserve every possibly vapour of gasoline, drove back onto the interstate, and began to pray that Christ would post angels over me for protection and that He would annoint my car with His Holy Spirit so that the engine would supernaturally keep running. As if in response to my first audible prayers the red 'Check Gage' light came on next to the fuel gage, and the blasts of snow grew more intense even as the incline of the road grew steadily steeper and more curvy. Rather than succumb to the fear gnawing at my heart and belly, I prayed harder, and kept praying. For 31 miles I crept along through steep mountains, coasting whenever possible, shivering from the agonizing cold and squinting to see through the blowing snow, but I never once stopped praying.

That morning before leaving, beloved, I had read in Matthew about the night when Christ called Peter to get out of the boat and walk on water towards Him. Peter did so, but scripture says 'But when he saw the [strong] wind, he was afraid, and beginning to sink he cried out, "Lord, save me." Jesus immediately reached out his hand and took hold of him, saying to him, " O you of little faith, why did you doubt?"' (Matt 14:30-31, ESV). Refusing to give in to fear I clung to my prayers fervently, even unto rebuking the winds and snows in Christ's name. Finally, the snow dissipated, the clouds themselves broke up, the sun shone radiantly through, and despite the shivering (and toe numbing) cold I felt a surge of warmth in my heart- below me, yet several miles but all of it downhill, lay the little cluster of gas stations and houses which proved to be Buffalo, Wyoming. Clapping and singing my all-providing Daddy's praises I coasted into a gas station after driving 31 miles on E. Hallelujah!!!!!

The rest of the journey through Wyoming was blessedly uneventful, and a combination of Holyfire's 'Broken and Brave' and Waterdeep continued to carry my spirits high. The moment I crossed into Montana (specifically entering the Crow Indian Reservation) I felt a thrill waft over me, although I'm willing to conceed that it might have been the alluring odour coming from my recently-purchased cup of hot java... regardless, it made me smile and shake my head at the 'magnificent madness of this plan' (which yes, I am unashamed to admit, I spoke to myself in my purest King's Own English, thank you much!).

Once inside Montana I faced the daunting prospect of driving approximately 450 miles to reach Missoula, the mountain fastness which is now my home. The Crow lands were vast plains and rolling ridgelines broken frequently by shallow, narrow and cottonwood-infested creek or river vallies. Passing near the Little Bighorn battlefield perked my attention, but other than that there was little to document, save for the plethora of absolutely unpronouncable Crow Indian words and names on signs along the highway (Absaroka, Brounehauexta, Whikikeepiskia, etc.). I did make a mental note to take the opportunity during the summer to return to the Crow lands and study their language a bit, if a'tall possible. They are Montana's proudest, and of old most powerful, Indian tribe, for generations holding their own against the numerically superior Sioux to the east, Blackfoot to the north & west, and Cheyenne to the south. Worthy of respect, to be sure.

After over 100 miles I passed the outskirts of Billings, and was struck by the sights of 3 car accidents. In and of themselves these did not arouse my interest, as I've never quite had that avid sense of morbid curiosity to slow down and stare at accidents hoping for blood, severed limbs or an explosion. Rather, what struck me was the sight of Montana state patrol cars and officers at each accident, and the plainly visible care they were offering the drivers of all 3 vehicles. I witnessed one state patrol officer in a black ski cap wrapping blankets around a shivering woman clutching a cup of some steaming liquid while another dabbed her cheek with a cloth, for blood or tears I do not know. I saw another officer helping an elderly man into the passenger seat of his state patrol car with manifest gentleness and respect. I also saw an officer pointing at a pickup truck stuck in a ditch and laughing with the driver; whatever they exchanged literally made the driver bend over while laughing. These sightings struck me because, as is well known, I have acquired a deeply negative view of most police (Michelle, I can actually picture you rolling your eyes at this point!) and yet seeing these officers so blatantly using their positions to serve and protect rather than to terrorize or penalize made a profound impression. I can only hope that they are representative of most policemen in Montana, and was quite encouraged to see their dedication. If anything, it reminded me of why I enlisted in the National Guard; the principle that the strong exist to serve and protect the weak, and that some may voluntarily sacrifice so that others may not be compelled to do so. No stretch to remember the example set by my Lord in this principle.

Several more hours stretched out along unending plains and rolling ridges west of Billings, and I can say experientially that this land more than lives up to the name 'Big Sky Country.' While yet some 90+ miles (I admit that by this point my ability to track the miles began to decay as my mind numbed a bit) east of Bozeman I gained my first sight of the Rocky Mountains. In a fit of glee I launched a mass-text to several people, and again grew excited. An hour later I called Mindy to laugh at the fact that, having texted an hour earlier of being able to see the Rockies, I still was not yet actually IN these bloody great mountains which taunted me across the miles with their cloud-enshrouded heights. Nonetheless, I eventually reached them, and then not long after entered Bozeman (home of the Museum of the Rockies, apparently). They were everything I'd dreamt of and expected with eagerness- massive and beautiful beyond words, snow-capped and pine-covered, seemingly infinite in their majesty.

From that point forward the journey became a matter of hopping from town to town across the multiple miles, passing through long river vallies or winding through high, steep and jagged passes. For much of that stretch my elevation was near or above the 'Mile High Mark,' which I suppose helped explain the incessant popping of my ears, while the absolute highest point was a pass just east of Butte which the sign stated to be at 6300+ feet. Of course it was in this pass, winding along a road covered in dirty snow and being compelled by my bladder to pass every slow-moving truck (I swear they get cloned somewhere out west, they all looked alike) that my windshield wiper solution ran out. That left my windshield increasingly encrusted in thick, dirty sludge and spray launched up by every truck I passed almost in protest of my Ricky Bobby skills. Still, after rolling down my window and dumping what was left of my water bottle onto it and then immediately using my wipers I was able to restore some degree of visibility. That ensured my safe arrival at the bottom of the pass, and immediately thereafter into a gas station in Butte where the pressing need for my wiper solution tank to be refilled was met moments after the slightly more pressing need of my bladder to be evacuated. Ah, the little sources of merriment when you take a transcontinental holiday....

From Butte it was a race against the setting sun to cross the 114 miles to Missoula. At times it brought back memories of the Keanu Reeves-ruined film 'Bram Stoker's Dracula,' as the heroes raced against the setting sun to reach Castle Dracula before the villain could safely rise from his coffin. Regardless of idiomatic cinematic references, I can say that I said many a prayer of optimistic thanks on that last stretch. The land grew, if possible, yet more beautiful, perhaps because of the quite noticable decline in human vestiges marring the landscape's natural perfection. For the final half hour I rattled along through the (quite literally) picture-perfect Sapphire Mountains, which apparently protect and surround Missoula. I crossed several narrow rivers, often the same river more than once, and then arrived in the Hellgate Canyon- the entrance to the broad Missoula Valley.

Beloved, had it not been for the green interstate signs warning me of the impending presence of Missoula, and the exits to enter it, it would have been utterly impossible to perceive the presence of the city on the other side of what was a veritable granite wall well over 1,000 feet high running out of sight in every direction save for the almost impossibly narrow canyon. The moment I emerged on the west side of the canyon, however, the towers of the city and the University of Montana became visible, and the lights of the city filled the broad valley for several miles (I had lost my race against the dusk, of course). The beauty of the valley, the city, and the campus cannot be adequately conveyed by words, nor even by online pictures. Even at night the cleanliness of the city, the beautiful combinations of historic and modern architecture, the snow-capped peaks soaring up towards the clouds in every direction, and the general economic prosperity of the area were plainly evident and deeply striking.

I made my way to my new home and met my roomates. I unpacked my car, then proceeded on to Walmart to buy some bookshelves, a 50% off but quite healthy plant, and some toiletries. Arriving home I put my room in order, and then promptly passed out. I rose early, rolling out of bed at 6:30 (an hour before my alarm) and set about double-checking my online directions to both the most highly recommended local coffeeshop and to the church I planned on attending. After a prolonged but pleasant shower and a bit of playtime with Liberty (my new roomate's dog) and her chew toys, I struck out for my morning coffee. Having enquired of my roomates, and several people with whom I'd conversed, as to the best local coffeeshop and unanimously gotten the same recommendation, I sought out and found 'Liquid Planet' on the north side of the Clark Fork River downtown amidst several square blocks of art & bookstores, pleasant-looking restaurants, beautiful murals and painted signs, and all manner of cultural and curio sites, including an imported foods store apparently specializing in Oriental, Indochinese & Indian food items! Such a clean and prosperous downtown, striking such a lovely harmony between contemporary and historic, prosperity and temperance, diversity and simplicity, is far beyond my expectations. However, the exploration of these stores and restaurants shall have to await an actual business day... allow me to return to Liquid Planet.

Beloved, it is by far to my own pleasure that I prioritized finding it this morning! It is an organic coffeeshop, offering a myriad of 100% organic and fair-trade flavours and products for coffees, teas, novelty drinks, pastries, and the home-making of each. On the wall is a massive copy of a 16th century map of the world, providing an historic twist to the rather European style of art and products available. The lack of sales tax ensures the affordability of everything (not unlike the preceeding night's excursion to Wallyworld), and I bought a (strikingly tasty!) 16oz organic Brazilian light roast for exactly $1.50. Upon the recommendation of the terribly pleasant and conversational barista (she was positively giddy when I stated that this was my very first morning in Missoula!) I bought a 'vegan oat & berry bar' for breakfast, and was surprisingly delighted by the combination of rough whole grains, oats, and sweet organic berries in the pastry. I daresay that Liquid Planet shall be seeing quite a bit more of me! Here is their website for those of you who care to take a gander: http://www.liquidplanet.com/

From there it was off to church, and I'm not ashamed to admit a great combination of trepidation and excitement. Finding it was easy, I merely had to backtrack down the same street I'd come, cross the river, and look for the right sidestreet. As I pulled up I continued to pray that here at New Hope Christian Fellowship I would find precisely that- a new hope, or rather the reinvigourated hope that each day Christ grants by the renewing of our inward being. I got out of the car, and was promptly greeted by an altogether pleasant middle-aged lady sweeping snow from the front steps. Her name was Linda, her husband Jim is a math professor (not to mention a purely jolly man) at UM, and upon learning that this was not only my first time at New Hope but also Missoula she clapped and said 'hallelujah! I hope you find here what we found 2 years ago when we first visited!' She also shooed me inside the church, out of the cold, and tracked down the assistant pastor, Kaleb, with whom I'd been corresponding, to ensure that I met him before the service. Kaleb proved to be a very, very friendly man, who produced a broad smile of recognition when Linda told him I had only the night before arrived in town.

He assured me that he and others had indeed been praying for my safe travel and arrival. A sensation of spiritual recognition welled up inside me, and I had to fight back a tear as the utter warmth of the Holy Spirit's comforting presence permeated my being. I then got a marker-written nametag (everyone wears them so that nobody is apparently left feeling unwelcome or unknown, a rather nifty idea I think, and one which revived memories of Dara gleefully writing my name on a nametag the night of my first BASIC meeting), and Kaleb reinvited me to the Young Adult bible study/fellowship (for singles and couples between 20-30) later this evening.

Worship began at 9am with a beautiful song proclaiming that 'my Redeemer Lives... in Jesus each day I have a new hope because I know my Redeemer Lives,' (the lyrics seemed very much an answer to prayer by any standards!), and then Kaleb got up to give the message as the head pastor was out of town. Kaleb's message was on the nature of communion being a Christ-given opportunity for each one of us to redeem the very day, hour and moment we share the juice and the bread in fellowship by remembering the healing and grace we have access to in Christ, even in our very darkest hour of need. Much of the message was drawn from 1 Corinthians 11 and Hebrews, and like the worship lyrics it seemed very much an answer to my prayers. It was a short message, making time for prolonged corporate and personal prayer before, during and after partaking in communion.

While it's too early to make a definite commitment to one church, I do know that I felt the presence of God there, and witnessed the Holy Spirit working through the body there in worship, love and kindness, and combining that with the personal invitations extended to me and the scriptural intensitity of the website and the message Kaleb offered I think it safe to say that I look forward to the bible studies offered (not just for Young Adults, but various ones offered throughout the week) and to further visitations before making a decision. Please be in prayer for that, and if you've any inclination visit their website: http://www.newhopemissoula.com/ to offer feedback.

Upon leaving I opted to return to Liquid Planet, which has free wi fi, to compose this email and conduct some online investigations in google maps and job opportunities for Missoula. It is proving quite the blessing, and again I emphasize the awing beauty of this city and valley. Wherever I drive I can look up and see the mountains towering above, and I'm impressed with the evident sense of popular optimism and pleasantness of the people, whether it's the friendly smiles and conversations I get meeting someone new or watching the countless people walking dogs, walking with someone, or playing with their children in the snow, there is a palpable sentiment of optimism which seems to permeate this city. I should very much hope it's contagious!

With that said, I shall take my leave, for fear of making your collective eyes glaze over at the numbing longevity of this letter! Do please forgive me for chronicling in such detail, but I seek to convey the sense of happiness and excitement I am experiencing throughout the journey and now as I face the task of settling in. I also seek to allay any concerns or fears, which I know more than a few of you possess, at my safety and spiritual wellbeing. Please remember that I covet your prayers, no longer for my safe travel but now for my settling into a life here, my desire for a fellowship network, my new roomates, and finding a job. My love, my thoughts and my prayers remain with you all, beloved, and my hope is that my growing sense of hope shall radiate across the miles to impact your lives and ministries through the effectual power of our mutual prayers.
Peace and love in Christ,
matt
PS- I apologize for nicking John's employment of the collective address 'beloved,' but during the drive out here I felt it impressed upon me that there really is no simpler nor more honest term for the body of Christ, nor for my friends and family. After all, if we love a group of people, should we not then call them our 'beloved?' One doesn't have to be personally titled 'John the Beloved' to use it honestly, I think, particularly if one defines Christianity through Galatians 5:6.