Into the Unknown: Vacation Edition

This article is by Melissa Dodson:

On Day One of our trip, the sidewalks along the tree-lined streets are buzzing with locals walking to work and school and shops. We step out of our AirBnb and into the warm, leaf-filtered sunlight, prepped to spend the day outdoors, thanks to the near perfect weather. This South American city was off the beaten path for our family vacation, but the plazas, parks, and laid-back itinerary are exactly what we’d been craving, especially with a seven- and three-year-old on the journey.

We came to this place for rest. We came to get a break from the routine. We came for the handmade, hot-out-of-the-oven empanadas. (It makes my mouth water to even say that.)

Yet with all the anticipation, we also felt a fair share of uncertainty, given how little we actually knew about this foreign land.

Without a travel agent or tour group or hired guide, there was no expert to direct us. Without an international phone plan, there wasn’t the instant access to information that’s almost always at our literal fingertips. And without tons of cultural understanding, even our fairly fluent Spanish skills wouldn’t necessarily be the key to unlock all mysteries and knowledge in this unknown city.

Which left my husband and I wondering, in light of our relative ignorance, what kind of trip this would even turn out to be. And were we, as the parents in this scenario, being silly (or irresponsible) leading our kids into such uncharted territory?

If anything could be a balm for the unease of such questions, it’s the Spanish tiles, ornate fountains, and gorgeous antique street lamps we encounter as we wander along, which beckon me to join the bustle of pedestrians around town. It feels magical and exotic, like I’ve landed in the middle of a García Márquez novel.

“Mama,” I’m suddenly awakened from my literary daydream, “what does that sign say?”

“Hmm …,” I reply, “I don’t really know.”

“Where exactly are we going?” they ask.

“Well, I’m not quite sure,” I say.

“Which way do you think we should turn? Left or right or keep going straight?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

The questions will only continue as my phrase-of-the-week quickly becomes some version of I don’t know. Being in the Southern Hemisphere places the sun in the opposite sky and our bodies in the opposite season from whence we’d come, and it’s discombobulating, to say the least. Though I’m a parent in this situation, I’m also just a visitor, so I’m left without a clue about how to respond to the numerous inquiries coming my way.

When I think about our reality back in the U.S., it’s amazing (absurd?) how much I’m able to know and predict in our normal, quotidian life. Pandemic- and tragedy-sized events aside, I’ve got so much access to so many answers — so much data. And because I have the ability to know the answers, my kids are accustomed to my knowing the answers, meaning I’m allowed to present the image of a day-to-day existence relatively unmarked by uncertainty.

Not knowing, then, can feel so unnatural.

It can also feel pretty scary. Especially in my role as a parent.

Take, for instance, the day about mid-trip when we decide to navigate the city’s system of public transportation.

We’re back out on the street. Buses lumber by us every minute or so, donned with numbers and symbols indicating their route and destination, which somehow correspond to the signage at the bus stop. We’re hoping to find our way to a quaint village just outside the city, as rumors of its charm and photos of its central plaza have enticed us for months, even from thousands of miles away. Our kids’ curiosities soon echo the very questions swimming around in my own head:

“Which bus will we take to get out of town, the 221 or the 222?”

“How will we pay for our ride?”

“How will we know when to get off?”

“How will we make it back to the city?”

Not knowing the answers to such questions, especially with the noise and speed of the buses passing by, leaves me feeling flustered — and frightened.

I’m afraid to be wrong or that I’ll make a mistake, and I’m worried that my mistakes might somehow affect my kids or even cause them harm.

We’ve all grown up hearing that knowledge is power, but in our non-vacation lives, when the questions seem so consequential, knowledge can also feel a lot like security. And the answers themselves can start to feel like safety. Pretty soon responsible parents everywhere — if we are indeed responsible — believe we need to know the answers and have it all figured out: the route, the destination, everything.

Rowan Williams, however, argues the opposite, explaining how such expectations are indicative of our desire to do it all and know it all ourselves.

He proposes a completely different attitude toward knowledge and learning, one which admits that we can’t and won’t know it all — that we won’t arrive when it comes to knowledge.

Which means we’re given the freedom and space to not have it all figured out.

And it means, more importantly, that each of us is given the permission to be a child. It’s an invitation to remain ever-open, like never-endingly-open, to learning what our Father might teach us.

Interestingly, Williams says, adopting this attitude helps give our kids the space to live with their own questions and make their own mistakes. They need that space, he says, and we do, too.

When our final day in South America arrives, our family is full: of empanadas; of memories; of appreciation for this culture. And we are full, still, of unanswered questions.

As we walk away from our trip (and by walking, I mean boarding several exhausting flights), my husband and I agree that we enjoyed the state of cluelessness that this beautiful, confusing city afforded us.

When we couldn’t know all the answers, it took the pressure off a bit. It allowed our kids to see us in a vulnerable light, which is to say that it allowed them to see us in a light way closer to reality.

It becomes the souvenir that I hope we take home with us: the willingness to feel a little more clueless a little more often.

After all, I am a parent, but I am also a child.

And I am learning to be a child — learning to listen to the messages my Father has to teach me: that I don’t need to know all the answers; that his loving acceptance of me has never depended on my knowing the answers; that it’s never depended on me at all.

And that as my family stands at the bus stops of life, bringing all of our questions and confusion, it is there that he offers us the comfort of his gracious presence, no matter where the journey takes us.