Packing Lightly

Two Things I Can't Live Without

I’ve gone to Europe carrying nothing but a backpack. I’ve learned to pack lightly—on planes, in life, and especially on the Senior Road. Extra baggage just weighs you down.

When I retired, I was on my own, untethered to any place or person. I could go anywhere or stop forever wherever I wanted. I’d bought a small Class C RV and, on the Tuesday after Labor Day 2018, began living in it full-time. It was enough.

At least, I hoped it was.

I sat under the awning those first few days, surveying my royal domain. I was King of the Road, and I liked what I saw. Of course, my royal throne was a folding camp chair, and my scepter was a fly swatter—but still.

Trees surrounded me, and the evening breeze rustled the leaves and cooled the summer’s heat. Passersby waved and sometimes stopped to talk. It was so quiet and peaceful that it felt alien, like another world, even though I was only a few miles from my old homeplace in Nashville.

I’d burned a lot of bridges to get there, but I held on to a nagging uncertainty about how long it would all last. Though it felt right in the moment, I knew I might quit camping the next week. Or I might keep going for ten years. I just didn’t know. That’s why I started at Cedars of Lebanon, close enough to my house that it’d be easy to bail out.

But you didn’t hear that from me.

To fund my travels, I planned to rent out the family home. Simple plan: empty, renovate, and lease it. I thought the emptying would be a two-week project. It took the entire summer. Our home had accumulated an astonishing amount of life. Furniture, photos, books, junk drawers full of rubber bands and paper clips. Every room carried the weight of our story.

We’d accumulated a lot of stuff in our thirty years there, but I was learning that possessions tie you down. The less I owned, the more agile and spontaneous I could be. So, everything had to go. I chose to trade in old things for new dreams.

Sometimes you just have to move on.

What I didn’t expect was how emotional it would be to let it all go. My wife had died the previous September, and everything I touched carried a memory. Sorting through it felt like sorting through all the decades of our married life—laughing, crying, smiling, aching.

That house was where we raised three children. It was where we learned Lori had cancer. Every closet hid a story. Every keepsake whispered her name.

So yes, I took my time.

Lori taught me to give easily, quickly, and without begrudging. Things can be replaced. People can’t. So, I gave a lot of it away and sold or tossed the rest.

By the end of the summer, the house was empty. Walking back through it, the only noise I heard was the creaking of the floorboards.

Or it could be the creaking of my joints instead. Hard to tell these days.

Either way, the big echoing house didn’t feel like home anymore. Lori was gone. Home had always been wherever she was, and without her, I didn’t quite know where I belonged. I was walking a road I never chose. Maybe I’d find my way back to where I ought to be while I was out there somewhere, camping.

I kept a handful of items from my old life. Two pieces of furniture: the rocking chair we’d rocked our children in and a bookcase my father had built. Plus Lori’s craftwork. Some family pictures. A few books, DVDs, and CDs. I put them all in a small storage unit and said goodbye to my past.

Maggie Lynn had 180 square feet of living space. That’s it. A small kitchen, a table, a couple of beds, a bathroom, and a narrow aisle down the center. I cut my life down to essentials: clothes, bedding, food, and camping gear. I added a few books, a laptop, and a printer, and with that, she was full.

I had shelter, food, water, clothing, and, of course, the Lord. I might want more, but I didn’t need more. Air conditioning, heating, and refrigeration were luxuries. Sometimes I even did without those. I came to realize that I truly required very little to live a comfortable life. Even what I had was more than enough.

I began to think about what I really needed to be human.

And this is what I landed on: besides food, water, and air, there were only two things I required. Without them, I would wither, and with them, I could flourish.

I needed God, and I needed people.

The basics keep life going. God and people give life meaning.

Now, not everyone reading this sees faith the way I do. The “God part” may sound foreign to you. That’s OK. You might even skip this section and write it off as Ben being too religious again, tossing in another cultural allusion to the divine.

You might even shake your head and feel sorry for me. “How could someone educated and thoughtful still believe that stuff?” Maybe I’m just weak-minded.

But I’ll say it anyway: I need God.

Why? Because God is love, and I need love. Jesus promises that his burden is light. When mine gets heavy, I trade with him. God’s not just an imaginary friend I talk to when I’m bored. He’s the vine, and I’m the flower. Without him, nothing makes sense. Alone, I wilt and eventually die.

And I also need people. Packing lightly doesn’t mean doing life alone. It’s easier when I share the load. Life together is richer than life as a loner.

I’m an introvert and loner by nature, but months on the road taught me I’m incomplete without others. I began reaching out to old friends wherever I went, including California, Washington, Colorado, Wisconsin, Iowa, South Carolina, Pennsylvania, and many more. Some of my friends I hadn’t seen in thirty years. Some of you reading this today are those people.

But I also made new friends. I started talking to strangers. I learned to smile at hikers on the trail and chat with fellow campers. Believe me, none of that came naturally. I just tried to do what I’d seen Lori do so effortlessly over the years. Another way she rubbed off on me.

Many of you reading this likely fall into the category of new friends, and I’m so glad I got to know you.

Jesus, when asked what the greatest commandment was, responded, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself.” Matthew 22:37-39 NIV

For me to be fully human, I need both. Love God. Love people. Pretty simple, but so hard to get right.

After four years of travel, I discovered the best way for me to live that out was to find a place where I could settle down, build community, and volunteer. So I sold the RV and moved back into that old house I’d emptied out.

A few months later, I traveled to Europe, carrying only a backpack, because I knew how to pack lightly. That’s another story waiting to be told.

It’s now been three years since I quit camping, and my house still has bare walls and some empty rooms. I continue to live with a “pack lightly” mindset. But I still slip into old habits.

I have two guitars, two bicycles, and two crates for my new puppy, Cookie.

What you own reveals your priorities in life, so I guess mine are making music, cycling, and my new companion.

You can decide what the box of power cords I no longer use says about me. I probably ought to get rid of them. I’ll pray about that and get back to you in forty days.

Still, I’m really trying to pack lightly for the rest of my life’s journey. That way, I’m ready to do what God calls me to do, and prepared to help carry other people’s burdens, all because…

You know.

Love God and love people.