Our faith is often spoken of as a journey. A walk. A marathon. A commitment to set the course and follow through on the winding road. The twists and turns. The dead ends and one ways.
Some of us walk alone. Stopping at road side diners, eating greasy foods. Camping on cold winter nights in our broken down tents. Wind flapping at our exposed feet. Striding through small towns only to be viewed as an intruder. “Not welcome” hanging crooked. Sign creaking in the breeze.
Others of us have joined a running club of sorts. We’re found surrounded by neon jumpers, cruising at a comfortable place. Our breathing rhythmic and easy. Enjoying conversation. Supported. Cheered on. Encouraged. Accountable. We learn the ins and outs of our trade. How to pace ourselves. How to feed our souls. How to nurse our wounds. Common injuries to watch out for. What happens when we move too fast. What happens when we travel too slow. Together.
Many of us are spectators. The ones with the signs sitting in lawn chairs. “Go Susie, go”. Up at the crack of dawn to watch the race. Thinking about maybe joining next year. Discouraged, because we don’t think we can ever hack it. Arthritis setting in.
A few of us hate walking period. We feel resentful that others are so active in it. Or worse, we’re ambivalent about not being on the journey at all. We peer through our living room drapes, runners moving past. Hiding in the shadows of the summer day. Hot inside. Stagnate. Immovable. Foggy.
Several of us are stuck in construction. Sticky hot tar radiating through our nostrils. Frustrated. Tired. Wanting to be somewhere further along. Listening to the radio and that same song for the sixth time today. Headaches. Dehydrated.
And, if we are to be honest, there are some of us who ended up flat out in the wrong town. We had a map. We spilled coffee on it. We think we left it behind somewhere between I was doing well and I’m having a mid life crisis. Our debit card isn’t working and here they don’t take credit. The hotels are musty and cheap. “There’s no place like home” chimes again in our head.
It is much easier to fall off than stay on track isn’t it? On this faith journey of ours. It is easier to pretend we’ve charted the right course than to admit we are somewhere stuck in Iwannabeouttahere
Where are you on your journey? I've been in all of these places. More than once, I'll admit. I've been stuck in dead end towns, slept in tattered tents, and renewed a membership at the most prestigious club around. In all places, He has met me there. Open armed. When I allowed him to. He's never said, I told you so, or informed me I've run out of chances. He knows how I got there. When and where I got lost. When I've run out of energy and no longer want to run the race. When I'm peeking behind curtains, hiding my face. When my map is in shreds or absent without leave. And he reminds me, at any and every point, from East to West, of four small words I can whisper to be on the right road again: Take me to you.
Have you asked him?
~Show me the path where I should walk, O Lord; point out the right road for me to follow.
Psalm 25: 4
~Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will direct your paths. Proverbs 3:5-6
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