Ryan J. Pemberton - Called: My Journey to C.S. Lewiss House and Back Again

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Origins

An Unexpected Journey

Y ou would completely misunderstand all Im about to tell you if you didnt first knowthat studying theology at Oxford represents the complete opposite of everything Iever wanted growing up. If someone had told me when I was in high school that Idone day leave a great job and move to England to study theology, I would have saidthey were crazy. That is, after I asked what theology is.

You see, I grew up in the far, far northwest corner of the States, in a valley thatshome to row after row of raspberry plants and corn fields and dairy farms. My hometownlies somewhere halfway between the Cascades mountain range and the Pacific Ocean,where dairy cows outnumber people ten to one, and the lone blinking stoplight ismore of a luxury than a necessity. The oldest of three, I played the role of son,brother, and father from a young age, wishing things were easier, more like the homesof other kids I knew. I remember Top Ramen and asking my mom how long wed have touse food stamps and her silent, angry face. I remember standing in the outfieldwith my mitt on my hand wishing my dad was there, behind the chain-link fence withthe other dads. I longed for my real dad, not one of the men who would stay withus for a month or two, maybe longer, with their strange, unfamiliar smells and habits.Those men who would teach me some things, and then fade away like the memory of adream.

It took me a long time to realize I spend most days trying to not be that littleboy. I still cannot eat Top Ramen.

My moms hair is the color of sunshine, hanging from her head in a heap of curls,with a golden smile to match. My mom loved people, and she showed me the importanceof helping others. When she was in high school, she worked with kids whose brainsand arms and legs didnt work right. Thats where I got my name, Ryan, shed tellme. From one of those kids. He had a beautiful spirit, shed later tell me. I methim when I was in college. He was stooped over, with tufts of grey hair on his head,light blue circles around his eyes, and drool hanging from his mouth. I had no ideawhat to say. And he didnt talk.

We moved a lot growing up. I had probably lived in a dozen different homes (if notmore) by the time I was in middle school. Mostly in the same town, though not always.I was a freshman in high school when I stopped unpacking all my boxes, leaving astack in my closet that I didnt bother with. My mom always seems happy in my memories.But she wasnt. Not all the time. Sometimes I think those of us who seem most happyare actually hurting the most. I remember finding bottles under the sink and latenight drives, praying wed make it home safely. I remember waking up in the middleof the night as a young boy and finding my mom at the neighbors house, sittingon a chair in the kitchen wearing nothing but a blue, scratchy tarp, refusing tolook at me. There were times when shed have to go away, and my brother and I wouldstay with my grandfather for a while.

My father was trained as an electrical engineer in the Air Force. Later, he workedon lasers for big companies that made computers. He lived in Vermont, California,and Texas, and his work often took him overseas: England, Korea, Germany. I did notknow why we werent together, my mom, my dad, and me. I would see my dad once ortwice a year, and hed send packages in between. Once, I received a letter from myfather, accompanied by a photo of him standing in front of Stonehenge, his shouldershugging his ears against the wind. Hed send mixtapes, tooU2, The Police, and Genesis.Id listen to the words, I could walk to your house, walking on the moon, on theWalkman my dad had also sent while I waited for the school bus, and Id picture mydad walking on the moon. When an older boy asked to listen, I told him I got it frommy dad. He asked if my dad had made the music and I realized I didnt know. So Itold him he did.

I remember seeing a commercial for green Moon Shoes as a young boy, with smilingkids bouncing high into the air and laughing. I remember thinking, Ive got to getmy hands on a pair of those. A while later, I finally saw those Moon Shoes in anoversized box in the toy store and I walked away disappointed. Theres no way thosethings would get me to the moon, I realized.

When I visited my dad in VermontI was five the first time I flew cross-country onmy ownhed take me for a ride on his motorcycle. Cringing at the sound of thunderat night, hed tell me that I didnt have to be afraid, that it couldnt get us inside.I would watch him struggle on the lake with his windsurfing board. Not enough windtoday, hed tell me afterward. In California, we would travel all day in the car, and then spend the following dayat amusement parks. And when he flew to Washington to see me, wed share a largeplate of nachos from a pub, play pool, watch movies, and Id always wonder why hehad to talk to everyone. Especially the women. Once, when he picked me up from theairporthis car always smelled like we were the first ones to use ithe took me tothe mall and told me I could pick out some clothes. I told the woman working therethat I wanted the outfit the plastic, headless white body wore. A week later, I flewhome. I remember standing outside, looking at our trailer of a home, still wearingmy new shirt, missing my father, and wondering why things had to be this way.

Growing up, my grandfather stood in for my dad in many ways. He taught me which isa Phillips-head and which is a flat-head screwdriver. He taught me the Lords Prayer,and he told me that if I see something that needs to be done, I should go ahead anddo it without waiting to be asked. The smells of fresh-cut wood and Coppertone sunscreenfloat through my memories of summers spent working on projects around the housewith my grandfather. Since he has been retired for as far back as I can remember,wed often spend our time together working on projects, like fixing things at thechildrens museum, where there was a full-size wooden train, and an oversized mouthwith grotesque teeth and a punching bag for an uvula that you could crawl into andwalk around in. Or sometimes we would pick up hot meals from the hospital and deliverthem to older people who could no longer make it out of their houses. My grandfatherand I did the kind of things you dont realize until youre much older that not everyonedoes.

At the end of a long day, wed walk several blocks to the ice cream shop, the onewith the old piano that played Ragtime tunes, mysteriously on its own, and the Elvisrecords and American flags and I like Ike metal buttons hung on the walls. Wedwalk home with the sweet, creamy taste of strawberries and stories from our dayswork on our lips.

One of my earliest memories is of my grandfather pulling me on a metal chute we usedas a sled across the slab of concrete beside the garden behind his home; the metalagainst the concrete made a sound like plates of earth scraping against each other.And whenever Id stay over on a school night, my grandpa would pack my lunch in anembarrassingly oversized, grocery-store paper bag, sending me off to school the nextmorning with a meal that was far too big for me to finish.

On the drive to school, hed ask if I wanted to go to class or catch rabbits. Mygrandpa (who I called Bop, for reasons I cannot now remember) grew up in the Southin the Dust Bowl era. The youngest boy in a family with too many mouths to feed andonly his mother to raise them, he grew up learning how to catch his dinner. I dontthink I ever traded school for catching rabbits. I need to go to school, Id tellmy grandpa, and hed say okay, put in a Ray Stevens cassette tape, and drive me toclass.