The road less travelled

Lost again. Where am I?

Father God, I am always asking you for directions.

I keep asking you where I'm going and when will I get there? 

I'm asking you to show me the next step, which path to take, to show me which door should I push.

Which way should I go? What route would you like me to take?

Where will you lead me if only I am willing to be led?

I should stop asking, and just wait for you to show me. Maybe in the waiting there's more to see than there is in this chase,  where I am concentrating only on the road in front of me, pounding footsteps, breath coming in gasps.

Maybe I could sit here for a while, by this crossroads, and feel the sun on my back, and the breeze in my hair, listening to the birds and noticing the small things. The ladybird that lands on my arm, the wild flowers that grow at the roadside. The way the leaves on the trees look so breathtakingly beautiful against the bluest of skies.

Stop. Is that alright?

Maybe that's better than tearing down the road without glancing left and right, backtracking when I realise I'm lost, only to set off at a gallop in another direction. Running, running, not stopping to drink in the view or notice that you're there, waiting for me to sit down next to you. Waiting to show me something.

Enough.

I want to take the road less travelled. 

The road that is hardly noticed because the entrance is narrow; the one that's just for me, not for anyone else; the one that you're waiting patiently to take me down. My path.

You know this road so well - you know every bump and camber, every hill and valley. You know that there are place where the road leads perilously close to a sheer drop, where I'll need your arm to steady me, and you know secret places where there are still waters and lush meadows to rest in. You know when to stop to admire the view from the best angle and you know when how to guide me through the steep and treacherous parts where I'm scared to go alone and it's easy to lose my footing.

You want to walk this road with me, not just wave me off on my own. You want to point out the spectacular sights and you want to be there when I stumble.

You just want me to put down my maps and SatNav gadgetry and stop trying to do it myself.

To stop peering off down roads I'm not supposed to investigate. Those roads might lead someone else exactly where they're supposed to be going, but they're not for me. Those other roads often look easier than mine - prettier, more exciting; but you're waiting for me to stop looking longingly at the signposts or at other people's receding backs and look into your eyes. 

I'm going to sit here for a bit because I'm tired. Lord, I'm so, so tired.

I'm going to lean against this tree and watch the insects on the flowers and the sunlight filtering through green leaves and dappling the ground. I'm going to feel how soft the grass and the moss and I'm going to breathe in and breathe out slowly and deeply. Clean, cool, unpolluted air. I'm going to wait until the muscles of my shoulders relax and stop aching with tension and the noise in my head grows quieter and quieter. Until the peace that emanates from you washes over me, calming, soothing, comforting.

And I'll rest, leaning on you. I'll wait. 

And, Lord, when you're ready; when you think I'm ready, and not before, I'm going to take the hand that you offer me and let you pull me to my feet. And then you'll show me where to go, and I'll match my stride with yours.

We'll go somewhere, me and you.

The road less travelled

Lost again. Where am I?

Father God, I am always asking you for directions. 

I keep asking you where I'm going and when will I get there? 

I'm asking you to show me the next step, which path to take, to show me which door should I push.

Which way should I go? What route would you like me to take?

Where will you lead me if only I am willing to be led?

I should stop asking, and just wait for you to show me. Maybe in the waiting there's more to see than there is in the chase, concentrating only on the road in front of me, pounding footsteps, breath coming in gasps.

Maybe I could sit here for a while, by this crossroads, and feel the sun on my back, and the breeze in my hair, listening to the birds and noticing the small things. The ladybird that lands on my arm, the wild flowers that grow at the roadside. The way the leaves on the trees look so breathtakingly beautiful against the bluest of skies.

Stop. 

Maybe that's better than tearing down the road without glancing left and right, backtracking when I realise I'm lost, only to set off at a gallop in another direction. Running, running, not stopping to drink in the view or notice that you're there, waiting for me to sit down next to you. Waiting to show me something.

Enough.

I want to take the road less travelled. 

The road that is hardly noticed because the entrance is narrow; the one that's just for me, not for anyone else; the one that you're waiting patiently to take me down. My path.

You know this road so well - you know every bump and camber, every hill and valley. You know that there are place where the road leads perilously close to a sheer drop, and you know secret places where there are still waters and lush meadows. You know when to stop to admire the view from the best angle and you know when how to guide me through the steep and treacherous parts where I'm scared to go alone and it's easy to lose my footing.

You want to walk this road with me, not just wave me off on my own. You want to point out the spectacular sights and you want to be there when I stumble.

You just want me to put down my maps and SatNav gadgetry and stop trying to do it myself.

Stop peering off down roads I'm not supposed to investigate. Those roads might lead someone else exactly where they're supposed to be going, but they're not for me. Those other roads sometimes look easier than mine - prettier, more exciting; but you're waiting for me to stop looking longingly at the signposts or at other people's receding backs and look into your eyes. 

I'm going to sit here for a bit because I'm tired. So, so tired.

I'm going to lean against this tree and notice the insects on the flowers and the sunlight filtering through green leaves and dappling the ground. I'm going to feel how soft the grass and the moss and I'm going to breathe in and breathe out slowly and deeply. Clean, cool, unpolluted air. I'm going to wait until the muscles of my shoulders relax and stop aching with tension and the noise in my head grows quieter and quieter. 

And I'll rest. I'll wait. 

And, Lord, when you're ready; when you think I'm ready, and not before, I'm going to take the hand that you offer me and let you pull me to my feet. And then you'll show me where to go, and I'll match my stride with yours.

We'll go somewhere, me and you.





Linking up today with Jennifer Dukes Lee at Tell His Story. 

Linking up also with Concrete Words at Sixinthesticks in a better-late-than-never sort of way. Monday's prompt was 'The Road' and this was in my head: perfect.

Thank you, people, for letting me link up. 

Recalibrating

So, God.

Something occurred to me the other day and made me smile. 

It was such an obvious analogy that I thought you must be having a bit of a joke.

I went to visit a friend who has recently moved house and I don't really know the way to her new place yet, even though I've been once before. So, being the technologically-minded person I am, I used my phone to direct me. I fed in her address, pressed a button labelled, 'Start from current location' and pressed 'Go'.

I went. 

I followed all the instructions until a junction where the man on the phone told me to turn left, but I thought I remembered it from last time and I was sure I should turn right.

I turned right. 

I was wrong.

The road I chose took me through an industrial estate, some strange and claustrophobic backstreets and onto a one-way system that took me way out of my way. 

The man on the phone stayed calm. He wasn't annoyed.

The screen said, 'Recalibrating'.

He recalibrated remarkably quickly, because he started directing me through the maze of streets and roads that I shouldn't have needed to negotiate at all. Eventually I realised we were working our way to my friend's house via a different route. This time I took his gentle advice and turned left when he told me to. 

A short time later I pulled up outside her house. I explained why I was a little late and she asked where I'd gone wrong. When I told her she frowned and said, 'Oh, you'd have had no end of trouble if you'd gone that way'. 

Tell me about it. 

So, the (glaringly obvious) moral of this story is: Follow The Instructions. 

The man on the phone had the map. He knew. I didn't, but I thought I was right. Famous last words. 

You've given me instructions, too. Sometimes, I follow them. Then, I get to a junction and you calmly tell me to go left, but no! Right looks familiar. Right looks interesting. Right it is then. And then down the Right/Wrong road I find myself confused and lost. Lonely. Out on a limb. On a complicated one-way system without a map. Meeting dead-ends and road works and 'not suitable for vehicles' signs. So what do I do then? I pick up the instructions.

What do you do? Do you shut down and let me sort it out myself? I made my own mess, now I should clear it up? No. You're still there. Watching, waiting, ready to help. Even though it was my own fault.

Recalibrating. 

Finding a new route, because I turned away from the old one. 

The man on the phone doesn't always take me where I need to by the most direct route because he factors in traffic, road works and any other considerations I ask him to take into account. You, too; you don't always take me on the most direct route, but I can trust you to get me there. 'There' is the destination that you choose - not me. If I chose where to go as well as how to get there I'd either be driving forever or I'd run out of road before I got there and I'd end up in the sea. We are an island, you know. 

So. Your route might not be the prettiest, the longest, the shortest, the most interesting, convoluted or exhilarating, but it'll be the right one. Even if it doesn't look like the right way to me, I've found that it's best to trust and keep going. I know that even when it looks as if you're leading me down a dead end, there'll be a way through that I didn't see, and at that darkest and scariest corner where the road is bumpy and there's a steep drop nearby - that's when there's often beautiful treasure that I never would have found if I'd turned off onto the well-lit road with plenty of lay-bys when I wanted to.

Whether it's a huge motorway or a dual carriageway or a narrow country lane, I know that you'll get me where you want me to go. Even if I keep taking short cuts that turn out disastrous and you need to keep recalibrating. 

Thank you, Lord, for your patience and gentleness. Thank you that, like the man on the phone, you didn't make me pull over so that you could shout, 'Where do you think you're going, you halfwit?' You didn't draw my attention to the price of petrol, or the road sign that I missed, or the fact that I just plain did the opposite to the instruction.

You recalibrate. You don't abandon me. When I'm lost and I admit that I need you once again, you still get me back to where I should be. It might be that the route I take after my diversion misses some of the spectacular views you wanted to show me, but that's down to me. 

Thank you. Whatever road you want me to drive down, Lord, I want you to navigate.

I'll never get there on my own.