By: Wendy Gorton Hill
Imagine a loved one brings you a present. He hands you the box gently. Perhaps it contains something fragile, you think. With great care and excitement, you pry away the bow and slip your finger beneath the fold of the wrapping paper. But when your eyes rest on the gift, instead of amazement, you’re overwhelmed by anguish and confusion. Inside, you find tickets for your entire family to travel to Timbuktu.
“I don’t understand,” you stammer. “I’ve always longed to go somewhere special, experience something new, but this… this isn’t where I wanted to go. Why didn’t you select a different destination? I hoped to visit an area where the flowers bloom with radiance and the mountains shimmer with snow.” You know you should hold back your questions, but you cannot. “Why Timbuktu? It’s so isolated, so far! I’m not ready for this trip. How do I pack for it?” As if the initial shock isn’t enough, your eye catches another surprise. “But, they’re one-way tickets! When do we return?”
Your loved one assures you, “I handpicked these travel details. This trip is the chance of a lifetime! Trust me. I have it all in hand. I will send return tickets when the time is right.”
I opened my tickets to Timbuktu early on a Sunday morning—in November, of all months—when I discovered my glassy-eyed, fifteen-year-old son in the bathroom, hallucinating on an unknown drug. We had an alcoholic in my husband’s family. Timbuktu’s terrain was familiar. In a month meant to be focused on gratitude, I sat in a thankless stupor. I stared into space and stammered out my questions. “Why Timbuktu, Lord?”
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