Sacred Safety

“So, are you meeting up with friends along the way or…?”

“Oh… Really? All by yourself?”

“You must be so brave to take that on.”

Everywhere I go, people comment on my daring plan to travel across the Western U.S. as a lone woman. There’s often an awkward pause as they look around, trying to ascertain the location of my missing travel companions.

It was the same as I stared forlornly under the open hood of my 2014 Subaru Forester, which was parked at a highway rest stop.

“If you and your… spouse? need any help, just let me know.” Said a man, his arms full of grocery bags and snacks.

I looked up. Every door of my car was flung open, making it appear as though a carful of clowns (or traveling companions) had just exited. But it was just me. Just me and an owner’s manual, and a quickly growing cloud of frustration and panic.

“Thanks, but it’s just me.” I said. “This is my first car and the oil ran out and I know nothing so I’m about to call my dad.”

“Well let me drop these off and see if I can help you. Wherever your dad is, I’m sure I’m closer.”

“He’s in Seattle,” I said, gesturing resignedly 200 miles west. “So, yeah.”

“Ok. Give me a second and I’ll be right back.”

He reappeared a few minutes later. He didn’t have the oil I needed on hand, but he was willing to drive me 20 minutes into Moses Lake and back to get some. As this seemed like a better plan than continuing to stand in a parking lot with a broken car, I agreed.

“I’m Lee, by the way,” I said.

“I’m Ben,” He said.

“Nice to meet you.” And I climbed into the passenger seat of his truck.

 

Now. Let me start off by saying – I KNOW I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO DO THIS. But I grew up with a revolving door of “hiker trash” (Pacific Crest Trail thru-hikers that my dad brought home from trailheads) sleeping on our living room floor every summer. I know the world is only about .1% freeway-patrolling ax-murderers, and I had a GPS tracker with an SOS beacon in my purse. So, I felt relatively safe.

As soon as we set off, Ben started telling me about his work as a firefighter for Spokane county, how he taught middle school, and coached for his daughter’s soccer team, carefully establishing his trustworthiness. He had been at the rest stop with his daughter, raising money for their upcoming soccer tournaments and had offered to bring her along if it would make me feel better. I’d declined the offer, but it did make me feel better.

After that, our conversation was free to roam where it would as we drove west down I-90. He asked me where I was traveling, and I asked him what he liked about being a firefighter.

“Firefighters make people feel safe,” he said. “When the police show up people tend to panic or freeze or put their hands in the air. But when we show up they know they’re going to be ok.”

He said that was also why he like being a teacher and a coach. When he worked with kids in the classroom and on the field, he could build up trust between the students. This trust meant students were willing to connect with otherwise boring school topics and to come to him with their problems.

He said authenticity was the key to creating a safe space.

“I’m just one guy trying to get through this world as best I can,” he said. Be believes that when students see that level of honesty, they are willing to open up to him.

We reached town, and Ben talked me through the different types of oil on sale, which one was the cheapest, and secured a paper funnel from a gas station. He held open doors and carried our supplies as we went, a level of chivalry I was unaccustomed to but appreciated. I could see why people were so willing to entrust their safety into his hands in the classroom or in a crisis.

When got back into his truck and thundered down the freeway back towards the rest stop I asked how he balanced the desire to create a safe space with the need to act quickly when under pressure.

“You can’t get time back.” He said. The ability to assess a situation is critical in emergency services. Which is why he was so focused on training and building up his reflexes.

“It’s like taking your car out in an empty parking lot when it’s covered in snow and doing doughnuts. You’re not out there for a thrill, you’re practicing how the car handles and you react. That practice means you’ll know what to do then the time comes.”

But, he said, when it came down to it, he would always put the safety of others ahead of himself. The time he took worrying about the pros and cons was time he’d never be able to get back.

We reached my car and he supervised me as I changed the oil. I can dock a 90-foot wooden sailboat, but car engines are a mystery to me. After successfully navigating that travail, it was time for me to get back on the road again. Ben wrote down his number as well as the numbers for his mother and grandmother, who lived at strategic points along my route, ensuring my continued safety even after he was gone.

As I pulled back onto the freeway entrance, I thought about the countless worried looks I had received when I announced my plan, and the dozens of admonishments against hitchhiking, trusting strangers, and traveling alone. I had just lived through every well-meaning church lady’s worst nightmare – and been perfectly safe.

What if we could learn to treat safety as something that is sacred and worth protecting? Instead of telling children not to talk to strangers or warning women not to travel alone, what if we all practiced the art of sacred safety. Despite some of my seemingly questionable life choices, I do know how to keep myself safe. Like Ben doing doughnuts in an empty parking lot, I’ve practiced during long years of travel and a family tradition of helping people in need. Ben too had practiced noticing people and inserting himself into a crisis. Through practice we had turned safety into a sacred sacrament which we extended to ourselves and those around us.

When I meet little girls who tell me their life plans of travel and adventure, I’ll always say, “That sounds amazing! And you know, you can count on me for anything.”