The other day, Country Man and I headed to the area of the Sandhills in Nebraska to check out a piece of equipment for the farm. Bobcat, loader? I have no idea. My stories would flow more like malbec than mud if I paid better attention.
What I do know is this: it was a 12-hour day trip with him, and those days don’t come often.
As we drove through Mission, reaching into the small hills and vast land that is reservation territory, a place where wild dogs roam and graffiti marks abandoned homes, I had that reminder once again of my isolated, quiet life and how easily I forget about this “real world” I live in.
A part of me wanted to lean over into Country Man’s safe arms; another part wondered when, if I abandoned my brave heart somewhere along life’s way?
Perhaps I know…
With the fortune of having nothing but sky and cattle and geese above, a home to protect me and a husband who adores me, I fear becoming comfortable.
Oh, I hate that word.
I’ve seen what happens to the comfortable, and I’ve vowed for a long time to fight that seemingly inevitable transition.
Comfort requires a level of conformity, to blend in, nod yes, smile, shrug, laugh when appropriate, wear this.
It’s an exhausting effort at first.
And as I sit weary of my own comfort of which this trip has reminded me, he slips back in the vehicle with pizzas to go, the smell taunting us for the next hour until we’re home.
Soon we pull into that same drive, under that same charming sky, and I am reminded once again of a life completely different than I had ever imagined. And daily I confront the luring temptress disguised as exciting horizons, easier life on the busy side, the greener grass … but daily I choose to stay, to work, to fight for boundaries in a boundary-less world.
To fight for love, for our dreams, for Hope most of all.
My heart, she is still brave.