The previous few days have been spent in Washington, mostly at Mt. Rainier National Park. It is a hauntingly beautiful place, where moss covered trees blanket the mountains, which are in turn shrouded by the clouds. Giant ferns tell of the mountain’s affinity to rain (averaging 90 inches per year). The nearly 30 feet of snow that accumulates up top each winter melts and cascades down boulder-strewn streams on its way to the valley rivers below. 
One cannot help but to be reflective in this sort of place. It is indeed, as the ancient celts referred to such places, a thin space, where the mystery of heaven is scarcely veiled and the spirit seems to connect to Spirit more easily.
Of the many reflections I had in this place, I will share this now. My hands. For the last two and a half weeks my hands have been dirty. I have showered, no worries there. I have washed my hands regularly, but the general work of keeping camp, running the generator, the grime of truck maintenance , which is seemingly never ending, all contribute to a blackness that clings constantly to the pores of my hands. It stubbornly clings to my nail beds in spite of scrubbing, and must serve to those I meet as a glaring neon sign of a lifestyle in contrast to a more socially acceptable cleanliness.
Over the weeks I have, out of necessity, come in contact with many a stranger. Sometimes a hand shake was exchanged, and other times money. But with each social or financial transaction I was keenly aware of the dirty hands I was extending as a representation of myself.
How many times have I come in contact with someone with grime under their nails or grease-stained hands, and subconsciously, or even consciously, judged them as dirty, unkempt, or perhaps even of a lesser class than I?
Camping like we’ve been doing requires work. We’re certainly not roughing it, but nonetheless a certain amount of work is necessary for basic survival. Whether it’s siphoning water, changing the oil in the generator, emptying the waste tanks, checking tire pressures and fluid levels, or a plethora of other tasks, these tasks must be done. And with many of these tasks, no one else in our family has the ability or know-how to complete them, so for the sake of the family’s survival and comfort, I do them. And I have been happy to do them. Only once, when it snowed in the Tetons (remember my aversion to snow) have I resented being the one on whom these responsibilities fell. And so it has been for the sake of my wife, for the sake of my children, and for the sake of our family I have dirtied my hands daily. And over the weeks, those dirty hands have begun to become something entirely different to me. Rather than a source of embarrassment or a stain on my middle class pride (as if that’s a thing) I have begun to wear them as a badge of honor. My oil-stained nail beds are a reminder of how I’ve kept my family warm. The black grime ground into my pores a symbol of making sure our vehicle was well maintained and safe for the many miles ahead. The dirt on my knees the story of a father who knelt to blow on the coals so his kids could roast marshmallows over a roaring fire. My dirtiness is a badge of honor.
The thing is though, I only have to do this for 6 weeks, and even that was of my own choosing. To all those parents out there who allow themselves to daily get dirty and to seemingly never get fully clean for the sake of your family, I salute you. You have earned my respect from now on.
That being said, after two and half weeks on the road, we determined a break from our 135 sq. ft. home-on-wheels was in order. A swim in the hotel pool, and one long, hot shower later, and my hands are fully clean…for now.
Note to self: teach the kids how to do the dirty jobs. 
journeywithus 