Chavurat Derekh HaMashiach

UNBROKEN II

Hello, I look forward to meeting y’all. I’ve been living in my van for two months now, long enough to master the ancient art of brushing my teeth in a parking lot while pretending I’m not brushing my teeth in a parking lot. Vanlife is a strange kind of freedom — part adventure, part chaos, part “did I really just sleep next to a Cracker Barrel again?” But I’m not doing it alone. Kenny — all 53 pounds of him — rides shotgun as my co‑pilot, emotional support comedian, and silent judge. I talk to him constantly, full conversations with plot twists and life updates. He never answers, but somehow he always wins the argument.
Two years ago, I retired, which basically handed me a permission slip to reinvent my life. Now I spend summers in Washington, winters in Florida, and the rest of the year following the cloud — the Messianic way of saying I go where the Spirit nudges me, or sometimes just where the weather app says I won’t melt. Travel isn’t new to me. I’ve been on the move my whole life — across states, across seasons, across the Atlantic when I served in the Navy. Staying anchored to one place has never been my strong suit. I’m the kind of person who gets itchy if I stay in the same zip code too long. Some people put down roots. I put down tire tracks.
This season has given me the chance to revisit the places I grew up — old schools, old towns, old memories that look smaller now that I’m taller on the inside. I’ve re‑met old friends, made new ones, and discovered that vanlifers are basically a traveling tribe of resourceful weirdos who instantly understand you without needing your backstory. And somewhere along the way, I realized I probably need to get off my bum more often. Long hours behind the wheel will do things to a person — including flattening out what used to be a very respectable, nicely shaped behind. Now it’s slowly negotiating a peace treaty with the driver’s seat. Kenny doesn’t judge, of course. He just gives me that look like, “Well, you’re the one who wanted to live in a van.”
I’m Messianic, but not in a “stand on a corner with a megaphone” way. My ministry is on the go — conversations in parking lots, encouragement at gas pumps, moments of connection with strangers who didn’t know they needed someone to listen. It’s not a pulpit; it’s a lifestyle. A wandering one. And creatively, this life has cracked me open in the best way. I’m a content creator, photographer, illustrator, musician — basically a one‑person art department with a dog who thinks he’s the creative director. Inspiration hits everywhere: a sunrise over a Walmart lot, a quiet forest road, the way Kenny tilts his head like he’s questioning my entire life plan.
I’ve lived a full life already — more chapters than most people expect when they first meet me. I’ve reinvented myself more times than a software update. I’ve been the steady one, the wanderer, the caretaker, the creative, the one who leaves, the one who returns, the one who keeps moving because movement feels like truth. Vanlife isn’t glamorous. It’s not the Instagram version with fairy lights and perfect hair. It’s real. It’s messy. It’s occasionally smelly. But it’s honest. It’s mine. And it’s teaching me what I actually need to feel grounded — which, ironically, turns out not to be ground at all.
Somewhere in all of this, I’m becoming someone new. Not running away — just finally living the way I’m wired. Unanchored, but not adrift. Unsettled, but not unstable. Unbroken.