The Van, the Pool, and Unmet Expectations

“Mom, it looks like a church van,” she texted me the day we were supposed to leave for the beach.

“What do you mean?” I texted back. We had reserved a Ford Transit wagon (15-passenger) with one of those tall roofs.

“It looks awful,” she continued.

“Send me a picture, Lily.”

The next two pictures that came through almost made me laugh out loud. Lily was right. The photo of the van we reserved and the van in the parking lot at pickup were very different. For one, it looked just like the work van Josh used to drive when he cleaned carpet. For two, it was only 12 seats, but it would comfortably fit our family, Josh’s mom, and my dad, even with our 123 bags and our pack-n-play. I tried to be positive about it, but as it pulled in our driveway on Tuesday afternoon, my thoughts went down a negative spiral.

“What is this? The Temu version?"

“I definitely didn’t expect it to look like this.”

“This is not what we ordered.”

I Googled gas mileage, and then I got REALLY annoyed. The other vehicle could get 18-20MPG on the highway, and this beauty was going to clock more like 11. This might not sound like a big deal, but I worked a quick mental word problem like I was taught to do in pre-algebra in 8th grade (thank you, Mr. Boultinghouse, I actually did need these algebraic equations), and I found it was a huge difference! The equation looked something like this:

If Laura and Josh drive a vehicle that averages 18 miles per gallon, how many gallons of gas will they need to travel 577 miles if gas is priced at $4.19 a gallon in greedy southern states? Also factor in the price of a 12-passenger van that gets 11 miles to the gallon, and write a comparative analysis showing how screwed they were by the rental company in Owensboro, KY.

577/18=32.0556

577/11=52.455 

Difference of gallons: 20X4.19=83.8 

83.8x2(round trip)=$167.6 

Round-trip, we would pay $167 more in gas. In our family, that’s significant because I brought cash as our spending money, and now over half of it is gone. I let the disappointment hit me, and then I took quick action. How? You may ask. I called them, of course.

“Hello, this is Laura Murphy. My husband just picked up the large work van from you all that looks nothing like what we reserved. 

“Oh, yes. He said a 12-passenger van would still work for you all.”

Of course he did. I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me.

“The reservation said Ford Transit or similar, and this is definitely not similar. It’s a GMC work van, and it gets horrible gas mileage.”

“Actually, it’s a 12-passenger instead of 15--, it gets better mileage!”

I wanted to tell this likely 22-year-old kid who answered the phone that I knew 8th-grade math and that Mr. Boultinghouse would be so disappointed in him, but I chose facts over emotions instead. 

“It gets 11 miles. I already looked it up. The transit gets 18. We are going to be out almost $200 more in gas.”

Boom, take that.

“Oh he repeated again. “We can help with the gas when you all get back,” he offered.

I should have gotten his name to confirm that offer, but exasperated, I mumbled:

“Thanks for your time,” as I hung up quickly. 

Moments later, our journey began, with our new church van speeding down the highway, burning through a gallon of gas every eleven miles.  

The trip was great. We stayed in the most beautiful Airbnb in Montgomery, AL, that looked just like my Granny Annie’s house in Macon, GA. A large wrap-around porch, a beautiful sunroom, and every antique imaginable could be found like little hidden Easter Eggs throughout the house. There were old-school board games, an original record player, toys from the 1980’s, a few I actually had as a child—a Q-pie doll, a wind-up Fisher-Price clock that played music, a horse with bendable legs, and a xylophone. I sat in the double twin bedroom and was flooded with the nostalgia of being a child again. I looked at the doll, forever molded in a crawling position, wearing a Velcro diaper, and I had a thought flood in:

“I miss my mom.”

Every time I think about being a little girl, I miss her. I LONG for her. She could walk right into the room and French-braid my hair, or sing me a silly song when she handed me my daily vitamins, or simply tuck me in at night. Why was she so far away? I had not heard her voice in 4 years. 

A single tear rushed down my cheek, and I swiped it away so I could join my kids, who were playing in the living room noisily.

 I walked in to find Lynlee giggling at Lily, who had convinced her the bird-in-a-cage decoration hanging from the ceiling was a real bird, and so she made silly chirping noises at Lynlee that she tried to repeat back to her big sister in a raspy two-year-old voice. I tried to savor this moment. A house that felt like an old memory trapped in a bottle, a room full of people I loved, the noise of laughter. Even the original hardwood floors throughout the house reminded me of my 8-year-old summer when I ran through Granny Annie’s hallways towards the kitchen to eat breakfast. It’s been thirty years since she passed away, and I am still transported right back to those moments as I walked through our Airbnb.

We loaded the van to head to Navarre, our second trip to this island in just six months. For fall break, we had a wedding near Gulf Shores to photograph, and family photos in Destin, so we found this town almost by accident while I was searching for a place between the two locations. The trip was magical, with Josh exploring with the big kids each morning, taking the kayaks to the bay to find giant crabs and beautiful shells while I splashed and played with the littles in the community pool one street over. I daydreamed about playing with my kids in just a few hours as Josh takes the bigs on an adventure in the bay behind the neighborhood. I had scored us a house in the exact same neighborhood as fall break, but even better, it was located right next door to the pool! 

Three car-ride-hours later (which anyone with kids understands), we pulled into Navarre. I could sense the salty air as soon as we crossed the bridge, rays of sun dancing above the clouds. Palm trees lined the front of the neighborhood, and just ahead, I saw the beautiful blue house that would be our home away from home for the next four nights. As we inched towards the pool, my eyes caught hold of a scene that was very wrong. The fence was torn to pieces, the pool was two-thirds drained with mossy green water, and a faded beach ball floated at the surface like a toy left behind. Caution tape covered the fence, and a sign read “Pool Closed.” The chairs I sat in when I watched my kids play just months prior were gone, and the outdoor toy box that we used each morning disappeared. The beach ball, almost totally stained white from the sun's harsh rays, was once blue and red. My heart sank. This was the happiest memory of my trip in October. This is why I booked this particular house. This is the brag I had sent Lily when I found the beach house—

“It’s right next to the pool!” 

We are supposed to lie out every day here. Judson and Lynlee are supposed to splash and play each morning, staying on the steps, or kicking in the baby floats they loved so much if they get in the mood to venture out. Lily and I will make slow-motion videos again, running to jump in the deep end, attempting to splash the littles across the pool, and they will laugh out loud if we get them wet with our cannonballs. We won’t check the time or even our phones because it will be so much fun.

We loved that pool in October. How could it be broken now? This was not what I had signed up for. 

Our beloved pool went from a beautiful, clear-water paradise to a creepy, abandoned marsh.

I felt all the things— anger, sadness, and confusion as I messaged our host:

“What happened to the pool? This was our favorite part of the neighborhood when we visited in October, and it’s the reason we booked this house.”

 Crickets. Two hours passed. We unpacked groceries. I continued to sulk and wade in the waters of devastation.

This is not what I signed up for. I felt like I had been tricked. 

I decided to call Airbnb with a complaint. They assured me they had put “Community pool closed” somewhere, and I had missed it. I hung up after 90 minutes on hold, after three transfers and a half-spoken apology, and I gave up. The pool was closed. This was disappointing, but those noisy kids were still playing in the living room, and they needed me.

I joined Josiah, with his bright smile and freckled nose, as he said cheerfully, “Wanna play Monopoly with me, Momma?”

“Of course, buddy.” 

He won. He owned the whole town. The next morning, I went outside. Looking at the tattered pool from my balcony, I let the broken expectations sink in. I really looked forward to using that pool, and it just wasn’t going to happen. I felt drawn to go down there and look at it up close. 

“I am sad that I can’t play here with my kids this week," I told myself.

“I was really looking forward to lying out with Lily for some girl talk.”

“I wanted to jump in the deep end and splash the kids so they would laugh out loud.”

“This is so different from what I expected, and I feel disappointed.”

A single tear rolled down my cheek again, and this time gratitude visited in sadness’s place.

I looked right at the pool, with green shallow water and a faded beach toy floating around like a figure skater across the water. 

“Thank you for the memories. The kids and I had so much fun playing with you.” I know this sounds ridiculous, but truly owning my disappointment was the only way I could move on.

I walked away and thought about missed expectations. My whole theme in this season, the one thing God speaks to me on repeat, is “Don’t look back.” 

I was able to turn my disappointment into gratitude, even when it didn’t look like I wanted it to. What if things change sometimes, so we do not experience the same thing twice? What if we get something even better? If all I did was look back, I would miss the opportunity to play Monopoly with my son, or the chance to make memories playing in the sand with them, building castles, and making roadways for the beach toys. I would miss the chance to be grateful for the pool in October and grateful for the sunny days today.

The pool might be closed, but my family is still with me, which is the real reason we like to get away, anyway. It’s not easy to be grateful when things don’t turn out the way we hoped. It’s okay to feel sad, or confused, or angry. But on the other side, if you trust that God causes all things to work together for good, you’ll see beauty in the way it turns out. Our van might be a gas guzzler, and our pool might be inaccessible, but I feel close to Heaven when I look at the ocean, and maybe my mom is close to me after all.