1. Hitting the Road: The Beginning of... the Beginning

How it all went down...

I had served dinner, and my husband Rob had retired early for our sunrise road trip to Central Washington. I packed snacks and water bottles for our trip, and put together food and bedding for the dogs, who were coming with us. Fed the cats, took out the garbage. When I was finished I stood at the top of the stairs and silently thanked God for the kazillionth time for blessing us with our beautiful home in the forest, and headed to bed.

Next morning I got up early, showered, and fixed breakfast. Ran upstairs and counted out vitamins for two days, grabbed our overnight bags and dashed downstairs. After giving the house one last glance-over I casually walked right out the front door. I had no idea it would be the last time I'd ever see my home-- my pets, my kitchen, my bedroom--again.

Our road trip that morning took a turn south with a simple, silly argument over finances.  Somewhere in the fray, in a less-than-brilliant defensive tactic I reminded my husband of all the money he had spent that month on his huge collection of dirt bikes. I knew the moment the words left my tongue that I had just committed a grave error, and braced myself for return fire: obscenities, pouring  freely like water through a canyon.

Our visit in Central Washington was less than perfect, and on our way home the next day my husband looked at me with rage in his eyes. 'Trace our marriage has been a mistake. I do not want to be accountable to anyone any more. I don't want to eat your (expletive) organic food, and I want to buy (expletive) dirt bikes when I want. I don't like being around you; I think you're a nag. When we get home to Olympia I want you to pack your stuff and move (expletive) out of my house. If you don't leave when we get home I will call the sheriff and have you thrown out."

We stopped for gas about twenty miles from Wenatchee, Washington and I got out of the truck, five years worth of obscenities, name-calling, and temper tantrums swirling around my head. I'll walk, I thought. I'll walk behind this gas station to show him how hurt and fearful I am of him right now. He will finish filling the tank, cool down, and then he'll come get me. Maybe he'll even apologize. 

I remember watching some branches on apple trees begin to blow around and thought how weird that was, because there was no wind. That was the last rational thought I would hold in my head for the next three months.  Rob Dyer drove away from that gas station with his dogs, his son, and a bottle of cherry wine someone had given us... but not his wife.   I never saw him again.

I walked for hours. Through the numbness, survival kicked in, and finding someone willing to let me make a long distance call became my first priority. I came to a small cafe where no one spoke any English. The woman behind the counter took one look at me when I walked in--and wordlessly handed me her telephone. I called Rob's daughter in Wenatchee and she drove out to rescue me, and put me up for the night. The next morning my daughter Courtney drove out from Spokane to pick me up; I sought refuge there for three months. 


It was in the dark, on the first morning in Spokane that God first spoke to me. He showed me Job 42:3, you asked 'who is this who questions My wisdom with such ignorance?' It is I, and I was talking about things I knew nothing about; things far too wonderful for me to understand.  


For several months I regarded that morning as the beginning of the end... I was wrong, for it was actually the beginning of the beginning. 

    I told myself on that drive to Spokane: one year from today you will turn 50, and on that day you will put this event behind you. I made a promise to myself and to God that I'd allow myself one year exactly to cry and grieve, then I would move on. I had no idea how difficult it was about to get.

This is my journey...