It's 0-dark-thirty. In these wee hours of the morning as I type this, my right knee is bouncing up and down at 120 beats per minute. Pure anticipation, fueled by an injection of anxiety.
I'm set to leave at 7am this morning, just as the sun stretches over the horizon, Josie and I are ready to set out on a journey that will carry us through the backroads of America's heartland. Well, as ready as Josie will ever be. She's about 80 percent, give or take, but aren't we all? She's got her minor creaks and groans, the occasional squeal that speaks of something that could probably use fixing but will have to wait. No machine, no person, ever leaves in perfect condition, and that's part of the beauty of it—the imperfections that rattle along with us, the small things we learn to live with.
Deep within me there is a brokenness. It's not debilitating, but it's constant, like the pain of a bad back that flares up every now and then just to remind you you're no longer 20-years-old… Somewhere out there is a "cure." Somewhere out there, there is a story–or a collection of stories–that will seep into my brokenness and heal. At least that is my hope…
Somewhere out there is a "cure." Somewhere out there, there is a story—or a collection of stories—that will seep into my brokenness and heal. At least that is my hope…
The road is laid out before Josie and I like a question with no definite answer, and there's something both thrilling and unnerving about it. I have no set agenda, no map with red lines tracing a predetermined path. I'm letting the road guide me, letting the turns and bends whisper their own suggestions. It's a strange thing to let go of control, to allow intuition to take the wheel. Yet here I am, ready to discover whatever small towns, hidden away from the highways, offer themselves up.
There's a particular feeling that comes in the moments just before a journey begins. It's a mixture of elation and anxiety, excitement bubbling just below the surface while an equal measure of uncertainty keeps your feet grounded. I feel it now. The open road is calling, promising freedom, discovery, and stories waiting to be told. But there's always the other side of it—the unknown that waits in the wings, the unforeseen breakdowns, the detours that will take me far from where I thought I was going. Josie may cough and sputter along the way, but that's part of the deal. She's an old companion, and I trust her to get me where I need to go, even if the ride isn't always smooth.
And I have an ace up my sleeve. The Hope & Generosity Tour's only corporate sponsor is a firm called "GoWesty," out in southern California. It specializes in catering to owners of these beloved VW vans that we drive. GoWesty is riding shotgun with me; they've offered unlimited technical support to their top mechanics, parts at a wholesale price and overnight shipping, should I need it, to anywhere I happen to be. It's a lifeline that provides me some peace of mind … and I hope to never have to partake of their generosity.
There's a beauty in not knowing what's coming. The heartland of America is vast, its small towns like islands in a sea of fields and forests, and each one holds its own quiet secrets.
What I love most about this jump off journey feeling, this pre-departure anticipation, is the sense of limitless possibility. I have no schedule to keep, no reservations waiting for me at the end of the day. There is something profoundly liberating in that. I could end up in a town I've never heard of, having coffee with a stranger whose story will leave me changed in some small but lasting way. Or I could camp under the stars, listening to the creaks of the van as the night settles in around me.
There's a beauty in not knowing what's coming. The heartland of America is vast, its small towns like islands in a sea of fields and forests, and each one holds its own quiet secrets. People live here, often forgotten by the rest of the world, going about their lives with a kind of resilience that's as old as the land itself. And I'm here to find them, to listen to their stories, and maybe, in some small way, remind them that they matter.
So, with Josie humming as best she can, and the road stretching out ahead of us, I set off. There's a twinge of anxiety still lingering, but it's softened by the thrill of what lies ahead. The unknown isn't something to fear—it's the very thing that makes this journey worth taking.