The Explosive Vacation

It was a rare sunny day in late March in Oregon, and my spirits were high as I entered the used bookstore. I had no particular book in mind to buy and enjoyed a few quiet minutes browsing through the cozy store, relishing the proximity of so many printed words. Finally, I knew I had to leave, so I bought a well-worn copy of a bestseller from some years past. Back on the street, I walked past the downtown shops toward the park where my wife and children played with friends.

I thumbed the pages of my acquisition as I walked, looking forward to indulging in some recreational reading during my coming week of vacation. At the time, nothing about my purchase seemed portentous, and I gave no thought as to what supernatural impulse might have compelled my hand to reach out and grab that one particular book. However, soon the significance of my selection grew and grew until it attained what might rightly be called cosmic importance, for that whimsical decision eventually proved not only the existence of God, but the existence of God’s Sense of Humor.

Shortly after rejoining my family, the initial tremors of the cataclysm to come shuddered through my son. He began complaining about his stomach being upset and then vomited in the parking lot at the mall. His mother and I fervently hoped that his illness would be mild and short lived, since we still had a considerable amount of visiting and traveling to experience on this family vacation before ever seeing home again. But my son is five and prone to overreacting when it comes to pain and sickness, so we allowed ourselves a measure of optimism.

That night I felt my optimism waning considerably as I made obeisance at the porcelain throne of my sister’s bathroom. Still, by the morning I felt well enough to drive the minivan as we headed off across the state to my parent’s house. My son felt much better, and I no longer felt like throwing-up, but soon new convulsions began racking my body.

Not content to just empty my stomach, my body next determined that all foreign substances must proceed out the nearest exit, and fast. Humility, I discovered, is quivering outside an occupied restroom in McDonald’s, slowly realizing that your journey will have to continue without the company of your present pair of underpants.

Some good did come from that trip, in that I was able to make a thorough evaluation of Oregon’s many rest area facilities. I now know their layouts and can speak knowledgeably on such topics as the quality of their toilet tissue, the precise timing of their automatic flushing mechanisms, and the exact number of tiles on the floor of an average stall.

We eventually made it to my parent’s house, though the last ten minutes I drove like a man racing to save his life, or in this case, his dignity.

The three days we spent with my Mom and Dad contained many joyous and happy times of fun and fellowship. However, all those cheerful memories are punctuated by the recollection of countless gut-wrentching spasms. Remembering that visit is like hearing a beautiful symphony of laughter and merriment which is constantly broken up by the discordant whoosh of a toilet flush.

I have been sick before, but the gastrointestinal distress which assailed my body that week was like no ailment I had ever felt nor dreamed could exist. The virus that waged war on my members was no average bug, but rather some apocalyptic germ of doom. Its genetic make-up, no doubt, was a mere gene or two removed from Ebola, and I often felt that I might die, sure as I was that all my insides were liquefying into a foul soup.

My sole source of solace during those long hours in the bathroom proved to be my new book. It not only saved my time from being completely flushed away, but in a strange way, it comforted me and gave my misery a real voice.

When the time came to leave, we decided to take a new way home, driving to Southern California through Idaho and Utah. The computer said that it was a shorter distance, which sounded good to us. Of course, as they say, the devil is in the details.

What the computer failed to reveal to us was that the governments of Idaho and Utah care nothing for the well-being of freeway travelers. Specifically, they have never felt the need to build rest areas. I am sure they don’t think that their state is one big toilet, but it is the practical outworking of their inaction.

My own dilemma seemed to be waning, and I could function for a good three hours before my body began clenching. Unfortunately on the road my son’s sickness staged a violent comeback. We drove through the night, wanting the children asleep for as much of the 20-hour trip as possible. Of course, natural disasters keep no hours, and eruptions occur at all times of the day. I pondered this truth at 2 am, as I stood by the side of some nameless off-ramp in the middle of nowhere Utah, holding my convulsing son as bodily fluids evacuated his body through both entrance and exit simultaneously.

We left Utah something of a present that night, but really it was more than that. I hope they view it as a suggestion; a comment card deposited by a passing visitor. Our message contained no words, yet no magic glasses are needed to interpret it correctly. Its central theme is really a question: the next time you get ready to spend $10 million for building a new tabernacle, why not set aside a couple grand and dig a few pit toilets?

I could chronicle the rest of that explosive night on the road and following morning of suffering, but I am sure you have heard enough to get the idea. Suffice to say, never before has the sight of a gas station caused me to break out into the Halleluiah chorus.

But to understand the real touch of irony imbedded in this whole experience I must take you back to that small downtown bookstore. For it is there that God manifested His sovereignty in a most unexpected way. As I perused the myriads of books and considered the single volume I might read for pleasure on my vacation, my wandering eye happened to stop on a certain title. So I bought it. What book was it? What book became my trusty sidekick as I discharged hour after hour on that cold, white seat?

The author was Simon Winchester, and the book was “Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded,” a thorough and descriptive account of one of the greatest volcanic catastrophes ever experienced by man. And while I read such chapters as “The Paroxysm, the Flood, and the Crack of Doom,” I knew God was real and that He was laughing.