stories of travel, medical missions, and more
My hand grazes the bark of a nearby tree and it flakes away—
I recall a café
On a morning in Paris
Flaky—croissant—coffee—bliss
But then the mild musk of European cigarettes
Pulls me
From reverie
To this musky tree
Who knows nothing of France
Nor should he
And so, this wood grows and gives and enchants
anthony forrest
It’s not been all fun and games for Roary. One would think that the life of an international traveling dinosaur of mystery would be one of luxury and ease, but alas, no. Yes, Roary travels comfortably in the side pouch of my backpack with his little head poking through the top. And yes, he’s as snug as a dino in a rug. I would bet my passport on the security of Roary. During transit days, he travels safely and securely. However, problems tend to arise when he leaves the stable and secure confines of the bag. One of the main points of traveling with a toy dinosaur is to take hilarious, ironic, and perfectly timed photos. To do that, I remove him from the bag, carefully set up the pose, cock his little head to catch his “good side,” back away, and snap the pic. Sometimes, I simply hold him up by the tail and take the picture without my hand in the frame. All in all, Roary and I have a system. He poses; I take the pic; we go on our merry.
I have a horrible confession. Some may read this next paragraph and disown me forever. But it is how I feel.
I don’t like Texas.
There, I’ve said it. I hear it from friends and family fairly often how they love Texas. Everything is bigger in Texas. Texas is real America. Texas is the home of freedom. God bless Texas.
But I can’t stand it.
As far as you can see—dirt. Sure, some parts have wetland, farming, and hills. But how can that redeem the utter void that is the mass of Texas? I hitchhiked one time near Abilene and counted numerous bars, strip joints, and abandoned cars. If class and civilization live in Texas, let’s just say that it isn’t thriving in a place like Abilene. Sorry, Abilene, I’m sure you have a great personality.
But don’t hate me yet. The only reason I ever want to go to Texas, is the shining star of San Antonio.
Ah, San Antonio. You almost redeem your state.
And one of the best parts of San Antonio is the out-of-place River Walk. In the heart of the city lies a sweet cocktail mix of Amsterdam, Venice, and Spanish colonialism that creates a bright spot in this American Southwest. Here, the San Antonio River carves though the skyscrapers and streets. Pedestrian walkways line the river, shops and restaurants and parks lie scattered throughout the picturesque area. Willows and other colonial-looking trees swing low, almost touching the water. River taxis zip by, ferrying the hungry to cool drinks and the promise of tacos.
If you would tell me, “hey, I’m going to Texas,” I would probably wince. But if you said, “hey I’m going to San Antonio,” my ears would perk up like a deer listening for hunters.
I you have a chance, go to San Antonio.
We did.
And so did Roary.
Where there is water, there is ducks. I though it would be great to have a picture of Roary near a few ducks on the River.
As I lowered the little dinosaur to the water, an angry mallard hurled forth and snatched Roary from my grasp. He fell violently into the water as the foul fowl tried again, snapping at him. Not only did I almost fall in the water, but Roary was almost duck food. Fortunately, I was quick enough to snatch him back from the clutches of sure death.
It was harrowing, especially for Roary.
Nobody likes to be abduckted.
anthony forrest
Keep up with Roary’s Stories!
Underfoot, the leaves crunch and crack
—like the bread at my sister’s house
Flour on her blouse
Child at her feet
Counter all neat
With bakery things and Irish butter
But now, the timer!
She whisks away the sourdough
And lo
It crackles like the leaves
Of my trees
In these woods
anthony forrest
If these woods were a bakery, the bread baked here would smell of crunching leaves
Leftover leaves
From the Fall, months ago
Covered in snow
Then revived with the Spring sunshine
The snow melted
And the rain came and went
Now the leaves crunch again
Leaving their warm, wooded bakery-scent
anthony forrest
I suppose you can tell a lot about somebody by the shoes they wear. At dinner last night, we saw a guy walk by us wearing khaki short and sandals with knee-high tube socks. Without needing a full description, you were probably able to scrape together a picture in your mind of a late middle-aged Midwesterner with sunblock on his nose. I can think of these two friends that work in commercial real estate. They wear nice dress shoes most of the time. They are businessmen and influencers in their community—and their shoes are a dead giveaway.
Personally, I can’t wear anything other than running shoes. My feet don’t want anything else. I’ve been spoiled with cushy running shoes for too long. Work, church, casual; I am wearing running shoes. Why? Because I run.
You can tell a lot about somebody by their shoes.
So, here I am, straddling a surf board in Hawaii, the Big Island. The guy teaching me to surf is on his board next to me. And we are having a great time. He’s funny, intelligent, wildly intuitive with the ocean, and extremely patient with me. I’m learning well and catching small waves.
While surfing, a lot of time is spent sitting on your board, waiting for the right waves. As we sit, we talk. We have nearly nothing in common. But we both love to spend time outside. I run. He surfs. I live in Minnesota. He lives in Hawaii. We get along great.
“Here it comes. Paddle! Paddle! Paddle!”
I’m paddling and can feel the back of the board begin to lift.
“Stand up, stand up!” I hear him yell.
I stand up, shift my weight, bend my knees, and keep my eyes forward. Where I look, that’s where the board goes. I shift my weight a bit more to the front and have a great ride. Eventually, I bail and drag my tired body onto the board. When I paddle back to where I started, I catch my breath. We go over what went right and what I can improve on.
During a lull, I ask him about his own life. Right out of college, he got a job as an accountant at some high society firm in San Diego. He had been living in the city and surfing whenever he could. But guess what? He hated it. After three brutal years of company servitude, his girlfriend convinced him to move to her home—Hawaii.
“I hated it bro,” he says, smiling through his sunglasses.
“You know what it was? It was the shoes, man. I just hated wearing shoes.”
I laugh and kind of understand what he is saying. He had been fed a common worldview that the American male should go to college, pursue a safe career, slave away his 20s, 30s, and 40s, then die of an early coronary behind his desk before he retired. I embellished about half of that, but you know what I mean. There’s this prevailing idea that a nice safe career, building retirement, and working for the weekend is the only good option in life. It’s a major problem in Western Culture. Few have any sense of passion in what they do. Fewer still are happy.
This once-accountant has taught surfing happily for over a dozen years now. He doesn’t need to wear shoes. And he is contributing positively to his life and community. Many cry foul, saying that this man is wasting his life. But there’s something to be said for the guy who decides that the proverbial “American Dream,” for him at least, is actually a nightmare. There’s something to be said for the guy who gives it all up to gain something of greater value. He’s brave, not foolish.
I am reminded of a quote from a man named Jim Elliot. He and four of his friends were missionaries to an uncontacted people group in Ecuador. They were speared to death soon after they made contact with the tribe. Their goal was to share the best of news with them—that Jesus is the Savior of mankind, that God wants us to be brought from death to life, and that He is the forgiver of sins. There is a bright treasure in the person of Jesus Christ. God has a place for us with Him in heaven.
Jim Elliot wrote in his journal that, “he is no fool who gives what he cannot keep, to gain what he cannot lose.”
Jim Elliot knew that if he was to give up the safe life, there may be risks. But living the safe life of milk toast tastes pretty soggy and bland when you’ve been confronted by a feast of treasure-treats and eternal delights. For Jim and his fellow missionaries, living the safe life meant that the tribal people of Ecuador would never taste those heavenly treats. Though they were killed, they laid the foundation for their wives and other missionaries to return and finish the work.
It’s hard to sit day after day, looking at forms and numbers, when there are gnarly waves and perfect coastlines calling out your name. Staying on the beach and playing it safe means that you won’t get crushed by waves. But you won’t get a fulfilling ride either.
Why stand on the beach, gazing out longingly to the sea?
Why wallow in the ordinary of this world?
Why wear shoes when you can tread barefoot with Son of God?
anthony forrest
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