No Retreat, No Regrets Part I

In the previous post, I talked about a certain form of self-deception. Preparation. How we tend to believe we are prepared in our hearts and heads for some impending experience or emotion, and how, too often, those preparations are lacking in some degree.

Another famous trick I/we tend to play upon our unsuspecting self is addressed by the infamous tagline, "No Regrets"....

Each of us have thought or spoken the cliche phrase at some point in our life, whether it was with a Sharpie in a high school yearbook that smells like fresh ink and hormones, or in our thoughts on the past while New Year's fireworks crowded the stars. I would also say that many of us believed it....or at least voiced it like we did--with a bravado that would have made politicians jealous.

"I don't have any regrets."

"I don't regret nothing."

"Regrets? What are those?"

((Some alteration of this phrase depending on your speech pattern and communication skill.))

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Before we continue. Let's attempt a definition.

Regret is an emotion most closely synonymous to guilt. Regret only exists when one's own actions are being considered.

• For example, I cannot regret the punishment of an innocent man, when I had nothing to do with his trial. I can, however, regret my action of providing false evidence against that same man. A man I knew to be innocent.
  
• I cannot regret the alienation faced by new students at schools across the country. I can, however, regret my own ridiculing actions against my freckled classmate in middle school.

Regret is based on our actions, yet it is also impacted by the consequences of those actions.
Positive consequences, or those which seem at least neutral, are easily accepted by our conscience, even if the actions which created them were disgusting. However, negative consequences following negative actions, create the sickening, nauseating feeling we label "regret".

• If the innocent man is freed through some unforeseen act of Fate, I will sleep much better than I would if the judge had recommended the death sentence. My action, providing false evidence, is the same, but the consequence makes all the difference.

• If the child I bullied in middle school grows up to be the head of a multi-billion dollar corporation, I will not regret my actions on a moral level. I may, in my terrific selfishness, regret them because they will ruin any chance at sharing in his success. However, if the offended child suffers through high school until a necktie ends his life in a dark closet, my regret will be very real and very deep, indeed.

One more thing about regret, and this will touch briefly on a point made at a later time, is that regret is very much like a parasite or a disease in that we can be carriers without exhibiting any of the symptoms. We may have the ingredients (Negative action + Negative consequence), but the actual regret remains dormant until sometime in the near or distant future. I may commit an act at age 7, but I may not feel regret for that act until age 54. This is because the possibility of regret is constantly changing with our personal maturity and development. And, compounding this fact, some consequences take years to reach their darkest fruition.

• I may not hear about the innocent man's electrocution until I am an old man, far removed from the ethically-starved lawyer of my youth.

• I may not discover the truth about "Freckle Face" until I graduate from college and return home and see the headline in a newsstand outside the Shell station.

((Another side of the coin which says our chances for regret are constantly evolving, deals with our maturing sense of ethics and morality. This is perhaps my weakest point, but I think there is some basis, especially when one considers the retrospection exhibited by many elderly people. The sunset of life can often be a time when the brightest colors and darkest shadows are all that remains. In this time, after lessons have been learned and morals discovered, one might glance back on the spectrum of events and feel regret over a scenario otherwise forgotten or dismissed as unimportant. A shadowed memory rather than a sunny remembrance. This regret is only possible because of the wisdom attained through experience, research, study, introspection, etc. Without this knowledge, there is no possibility for regret. Yet another support beam for the "Ignorance is Bliss" platform.))

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This is most definitely a working definition. I have undoubtedly left out important characteristics which some of you may recognize. I may even be completely wrong about my approach. If so, please post your remarks and corrections below, or give me a rhetorical backhand next time I see you. With love, of course. Be gentle for you tread on my dreams....or perhaps just my wandering thoughts....which are not quite as fragile.

I think we can all agree, regardless of your acceptance of my own definition, regret is one of the rare times when we look back on our personal past and pinpoint a decision, an action, a thought, and feel a negative emotion. Most of the time, we shift that negative emotion onto someone else or some other thing (blame, justification, etc), but regret. Ah, regret. We feel the sting....that is....if we allow Honesty to enter the courtroom and send Pride out like an unruly juror.

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Now that we have defined regret, there are no doubt a variety of arguments for and against regret as an acceptable or unacceptable response to our past.

Regret as Unacceptable: What's done is done. You cannot change the past. Why spend your time, energy, and emotion, fretting about things you cannot change?

Regret as Acceptable: Can we really think of an instance in our past, a mistake which we know directly caused another person pain, emotionally or physically, and not feel some amount of sorrow? Some amount of responsibility which we experience through guilt?

((on the surface, I find myself most closely associated with the second instance. It is true we must not cling to the past. We must not allow our mistakes to drag us down to the point where our present and future selves are useless. However, it is not possible for the human mind to purposefully forget an action or event. Our personal past is inscribed in our mind just as the historical past is inscribed on stone and paper. It is a common sentiment to learn from history in order to avoid making the same mistakes. An aspiring dictator would do well to study the failure of previous totalitarian rulers, just as I would do well to remember my own personal failures in order to become a better version of myself. I will end this rabbit trail by reminding the key factor is Moderation. Balance. An obsession with past faults only creates misery, while an absolution of the past creates a repetitive cycle of mistakes))

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I will not deal at length with which side I find myself supporting. As I said earlier, I lean toward the usefulness of an amount of regret and recognition of past errors. I know this because I struggle with regrets. I look back on my life and wish I had done things differently. Now. I will separate that confession into two camps.

1. The first camp deals with regret over actions committed which hurt someone.

2. The second camp deals with regret over actions which I feel ruined the personal attainment of positive things--happiness, relationships, success, accomplishments.

We have already discussed a definition of the first sort and included examples which may or may not have helped with understanding. It is ironic (and unplanned) that so much time was spent on the first, because it was my intention to limit this post to the second idea. My thoughts for this post originated in the boiling discomfort of the soul when one looks back at a period in time and fears that personal actions (or lack thereof) kept one from boarding a train bound for bliss and beauty.

I am sure I am not the only one to feel such a nauseating impulse:

A---> It is the feeling after meeting someone beautiful and regretting the stupid speech you gave on the mating habits of the North American tree sloth....I am NOT speaking from experience. It is a hyperbolic example to prove a point.

B---> It is the feeling after an interview when you remember one aspect of your personal character which never made it onto your resume.

C---> It is the feeling after leaving someone you love and wondering if you should have stayed.

I include the last example, not to create a morose, romantic sympathy in the reader, but to express the depth this emotion can reach. Sure, there are silly times, but there are also real times. Earth-shattering times. Future-destroying times. Times when you honestly do not know how you could have been so stupid, harsh, or selfish. Times when you see that moment in your mind's eye and wish before God and man to return and do it again.

This regret is not concerned with self-transformation but with self-correction. This regret is not concerned with learning from the past, but with redoing the past. And since we humans can redo our past about as well as an oak tree can reenter an acorn, this regret is pointless.

I find it odd that I struggle much more with this form of regret than with the other. I am not sure of the reasons for this, but I can assure you I aim to investigate the matter and bring the guilty character traits to justice.

......to be continued


((Any kind of investigation is useless outside of Scripture. The discovery, if I made one at all, would very likely shock and disturb, rather than challenge or encourage. I am struggling with tackling too many things at one time, but I really would like to include some thoughts from God about regret and where it fits with His plan for our thoughts and emotions.

If you have any thoughts of your own, or if you know of any places in the Bible that deal with regret, please let me know.))

Preparation

What's the point.

Sometimes I think that preparation is another way of lying to yourself. A way of convincing yourself you are stronger than you really are. You are better. Over it. Safe. Secure.

But the problem with preparation is that it only lasts until the event occurs, until whatever it is you were preparing for happens, and then you find out, in fact, you were not at all prepared. You find out you were only telling yourself that so it didn't hurt, so it didn't loom in the distance like an iceberg waiting to sink the ship on which all your ideas of yourself and the world were sailing with optimism only ignorance can create.

I don't mean to sound too morose. Or despairing.

I guess I mean to sound realistic.

How many of us have made preparations and then watched them fall with a glance, a word, a breath.

Apply it to anything. Life in general. The future. For six years, I 'prepared' myself for a career, and a year and a half afterward I'm still working part time at a restaurant, up to my elbows in dirty dishes.

But it's not just confined to the physical life. You can prepare yourself emotionally for news you know is bound to come, but the REALITY of that event--the black and bloody existence--is what is truly difficult. Before reality, before the thing occurs, we are fighting a shadow. Naturally, we are going to feel prepared. Naturally, we are going to think we can overcome and awake on the other side a stronger person. We are creating the image in our head, we are playing chess with our self, and we win every time. Only a pessimist walks through life with the belief every conflict will be lost, every bad thing will break a heart.

So where does this leave us.

Do we prepare. Do we board up the mental windows and doors before the storm hits, or do we cower in the corner as the sky turns black and the wind grows from a whisper to a howl.

I think you know the answer. I think I know the answer.

We must prepare.

But we must not trust our preparations for salvation. We must dig the moats, raise the drawbridge, boil the oil, but we must realize these are not solutions. They will not keep all the arrows at bay. They will not deter every invader. We must look beyond our own defenses for survival. We must look beyond our ability to analyze, to predict, to decipher, because really, all of these are based simply on our best guess. We don't know what reality awaits. We do not know what follows behind the dark shadow in our mind.

Yet again, this is another part of my life experience where I am directed to God. Honestly, my frame of mind when I started this post was far from positive. My frame of mind was sad, frustrated, disappointed, embarrassed. I was writing blind, bleeding words onto the page, writing my thoughts like a runaway train. They led me here. To the realization that my human preparations are futile without the presence of Someone bigger than myself and bigger than reality.

I honestly do not know how I would approach the pointlessness of the human experience without my relationship to God, without my faith in His sovereignty. I think the hopelessness of my own actions in tragedy's cruel wake would be enough to drive me to severe depression.

I. Need. God.

We all do.

Everything is vain without Him.

So prepare. Build those walls. Guard your hearts. Get everything in order.

But remember preparations are only as good as the one who makes them.

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Psalm 20:7
Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.

Psalm 9:10
And those who know your name put their trust in you,for you, O LORD, have not forsaken those who seek you.

Psalm 28:7
The LORD is my strength and my shield; in him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults,and with my song I give thanks to him.

Psalm 44:6
For not in my bow do I trust,nor can my sword save me.

Psalm 118:8
It is better to take refuge in the LORD than to trust in man.

Proverbs 28:26
Whoever trusts in his own mind is a fool,but he who walks in wisdom will be delivered.

Isaiah 26:4
Trust in the LORD forever,for the LORD GOD is an everlasting rock.

Jeremiah 39:18
For I will surely save you, and you shall not fall by the sword, but you shall have your life as a prize of war, because you have put your trust in me, declares the LORD.

A Brief Draft of a Lengthy Manifesto

I have given up trying to be consistent with the form of documentation known as—The Blog. I don’t know why some people find it easy to schedule a time in the morning, afternoon, or evening to update the “world” on their activities and thoughts, and yet I think of it rarely and with less than some eagerness. If I was to name a few reasons for my personal difficulty, I think the first would deal with my awareness of my own unimportance. Most of the time, I do not think I’m very important….and I don’t mean this in a “nobody loves me, everybody hates me” sense, I just mean that my voice does not seem that interesting to me. My actions, thoughts, desires, ideas, hopes, fears, observations, jokes, do not really intrigue me. I would much rather read the insight of another than offer my own. Which is ironic, really, considering my intention and passion toward writing in general. Perhaps I should work on this aspect of my psyche. Perhaps.

However, all of this being said, I am wondering if a series of events in my life may have somehow impacted my outlook on this forever. The events themselves are not necessarily unimportant, but including them here would only confuse a great many of you, and I am sure most of these said events will become known in time, whether through this or some other medium.

I owe a great amount of this change, this opening of my thoughts, to God and His constant devotion. Through a time of shadow, He has shown me how bright the Light of Heaven is able to shine. Through a time of suffering, He has offered me the power and healing of His wonderful faithfulness. Those occasions when I actually take time to gravely consider the level of His sacrifice and the extent of His love, I am in a state of unspeakable awe.

Those times, those minutes of absolute peace and complete hope, are impossible to express. Words and ideas will always fall short until the day when my perfect mind and body are prostrate before His throne. However, there are other things in my spirit, other thoughts and questions and doubts and trials and joys and blessings that I will be able to share, and for the first time, I am going to attempt to share with whomever.

While this entire post serves as an introduction, a sort of explanation of my thoughts toward the idea of authorship, I will reiterate here the sentiment which might have slipped through the lines. It is with great hesitation that I approach spiritual thoughts and discourse. I am not one to rant upon a moment’s notice. Some of my writing is spontaneous and ridiculous, even uninteresting and ignorant. But everything from my flawed mind, mouth, or hands that deals with ideas of God and His Kingdom is expressed with incredible humility. My heart’s desire is to reflect spiritual truth and edify my audience, not as an inspired author, but as a sinner who God saved with the blood of the Son and then marked with a passion for writing.

So. Whether you are reading something fictitious or real, something humorous or somber, something simple or profound, something brief or lengthy, should you happen to be on this blog or see my name attached to the piece in some other location, remember every good word, every ounce of truth, comes down from the Father of Lights. Everything else—the dents, scratches, and imperfections—is the unfortunate byproduct of my humanity.

God Bless, Restore, Enhance, Strengthen, and otherwise Transform your entire existence,

Matt

An Explanation

Well.

This blog has turned out to be a once-in-a-never blog. I have wanted to keep everyone informed of my whereabouts and my whatabouts, but I have been incredibly busy the past month(s), so that original, perhaps idealistic, intent has become lost in the chaos of reality.

Even this, the first post in weeks, will have to be a short one. I just finished scrubbing gouda cheese and romaine lettuce off the floor at Panera Bread, and I am already late for a weekly theological and social conversation with a Mr. Jack Artois, a conversation I cannot simply ignore because so much of my sanity hinges on releasing my mind in some form, and Jack's ears have been a great receiver of my verbal and psychological garbage for quite some time.

I am writing a book.

Certain things have happened which have driven me into a writing frenzy. I have become somewhat of a recluse, hidden in cafe corners and behind closed doors, tapping frantically on a keyboard or scratching in a notebook.

This particular endeavor is already the longest piece I have written to date, even though I have only been working seriously for three weeks. Sometimes my productivity amazes even me, although my current schedule and social limitations allow a great amount of free time. And since I would rather travel to worlds in my head than wallow in a cloud of worry and despair--my productivity seems only logical.

The book is going to be a long book. An epic, even. It is already over twenty thousand words, and I have yet to begin the 'meat' of the story itself.

I will not give anything away, other than to say that it is one part The Giver, one part Lord of the Rings, one part Exodus, and several dashes Lord of the Flies.

Expect updates and journal entries at a later date, as well as a flash-based website once the book is closer to completion.

Also, I have recently decided upon the location for the next chapter of my life, and in the words of a song made famous by Wilbert Harrison:

I'm going to Kansas City. Kansas City here I come.

...............more on this in the (near)future........................

Preface: The Creation of Liles Henderson

Departures: people leaving/leaving people.

They are a part of life. Thoughts on them are often lonely and empty, sad and fearful. My thoughts often return to the disciples of Christ. We've read the account of their calling by the Messiah our whole lives, but I wonder if we've really contemplated what it must have been like to abandon everything.

Liles Henderson, a fictional character, is the product of my own contemplation on this topic. He is a modern version of a disciple called from an old life to a new--an uneducated laborer called by God to a certain task. He is a blue-collar Noah, an inarticulate Peter, a corrupt Saul on the road to Damascus. We are not told what the disciples were like before their election by Christ, so I have naturally taken a few liberties regarding Liles' background. I made him flawed, ignorant, simple. I made him well-liked yet unknown, quiet yet passionate.

The decision to base everything in dialogue, without tags or descriptions was both stylistic and semantic. Our speech tells so much about us, even more so when we are speaking with someone. I wanted this to be a very personal account of a man leaving everything for something he can't explain--something he doesn't entirely understand. I wanted this to be the reaction of his intimate friends, his family, his acquaintances who are all on the outside looking in, amazed at the transformation.

Throughout the New Testament we see dramatic, personal change. Many times in Jesus' ministry it was physical in nature: a leper surprising his family with purity, a blind man confusing Pharisees with his sight, a lame man shocking people with his leaps and bounds. Imagine if each of these people were asked to explain the experience, the source of their cleanliness, and consider, these are never mere physical experiences. The transformation of the soul is much harder to put into words.

What would they say? How would people react?

In the story (found here), I try to tackle these final questions asked in a small town in modern America. Feel free to leave your cyber-footprint in the form of a thought, comment, opinion, etc.

I love you all. Grace and Peace.

Cats and Human Nature

Cats or dogs. The preference of companions among humans is often the subject of heated debates. Some people prefer the docile nature of cats, others the active loyalty of canis major. Even though I like to claim Switzerland in controversial issues, I am not neutral in this particular topic and would much rather own a dog than a cat. My reasons for this preference are many, but the purpose of this post is not to divulge every one.

However, one detestable feline trait I choose to address is their stubborn selfishness. Before you take offense because your cat sheds angel feathers instead of fur balls, hear my argument. In my experience, cats have an insufferably free spirit and will resist nearly every form of training. If some sort of discipline is enforced, it’s as if they decided upon it in the first place, like a child choosing to go to bed five minutes before his parents send him. The litter box, for example. New cat owners immediately purchase a plastic tray so the cat won’t poop on the carpet. It’s not a training process, it was the cat’s idea all along, and the plotting beast lies on the kitchen tile contemplating where to place its excretions until the scent of pine breeze drifts from the laundry room.

This may seem like a miracle compared to the painful process of training a dog to wait for a grass toilet, but this controlling, conniving nature of the cat permeates every aspect of its life, not just where to drop the gravy.

Try telling a cat to stop jumping on the counter. Try shouting at a cat to quit biting the computer cord. Try beating a cat with a broom to stop it from scratching the furniture. Chances are the stubborn brat will look at you with lazy eyes and obey until you turn your back. My cat is fifteen years old. In all five thousand plus days of his existence, the table has been strictly labeled off limits, and every time he rebels we have shouted, clapped, smacked, shoved, etc. to get him off. Last night, I walked into the dining room after the house is asleep and the idiot is perched on the table like a king on his throne.

There is no fear of punishment, no desire for hesitation, no respect for authority. Cats do whatever the hell they want, whenever the hell they want, and if on some occasion you think you have finally crushed its rebellious spirit, wait a few minutes. It’s not refraining out of obedience, it’s refraining because it doesn’t really feel like walking all the way over the couch and shredding the fabric. Maybe in a few minutes. Maybe tomorrow. All in good time.

This is why I love dogs. Tell a dog enough times with enough force and you could stack fine china on a tower of toothpicks. Wag a finger and a dog sulks. Pitch your voice and its tail thumps the tile. Dogs have a memory. Dogs have a desire to please. Dogs are obedient, trainable, loyal.

Another example.

Tonight, I went into the living room with a delicious bowl of ice cream. I had just fed the aforementioned cat and now prepped to watch the next installment of The Lord of the Rings. I set my bowl down on the floor and began to load the DVD player. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an orange mass waddling slowly in my direction. I give a sharp reprimand after seeing his projection would take him directly to my dessert. The second my attention returns to the television, his returns to my bowl. I wave an annoyed hand in his face, call him an insulting name, and slide my bowl once again. This continues the entire time I am eating. The audacious animal sticks his nose in my face, breathes into my bowl, sniffs the spoon and my fingers—all while I am trying to eat. This is not an act of flattery or cuddling. This is a mission to sneak a lick of Blue Bunny Strawberry Banana Frozen Yogurt. A treat dripping with sugar and chocolate syrup, which would be the death of such a fragile animal should I grant his wish. Curiosity kills.

I voiced my disgust in a fit of sarcasm, and my dad answered me with something unintentionally profound.

“Cats are independent,” he said.

Independent. This is the word I had been looking for. This is the word I had been replacing with “stubborn, annoying, selfish, disobedient, dumb.”

Immediately I was struck with the concepts of free will and human independence in connection with the Father. As I make the comparison now, I think about how very similar we are to cats.

I think of how many times I do something humanity has been commanded to avoid for thousands of years. I think of how many times I stare at a passage of Scripture, read a blatant command from God, and decide to wait for my own convenience. Maybe in a few minutes. Maybe tomorrow. All in good time.

I think of how many times I shove my face into God’s business, poking, prodding, begging, pestering for something I want without listening to the constant refusal and warnings, without respecting his knowledge and wisdom, without knowing what I want most could kill me.

I think about how many times God looks down at me and wishes I was more like a dog. How many times He longs for me to fear and love His voice. How many times He wants me to yield some of my independence for obedience, selfishness for loyalty.

The Explanation

There is a sort of irony in the naming of this blog. Contrary to first glance, it is not a spell from Harry Potter or the motto of some secret society. In fact, much of the inspiration came from my friend, Jack Artois, whose recent exposure to the Nautilus persuaded him to tattoo “Mobilis in Mobili” on his forearm. Translated from Latin, this simply means “movement in motion” and is the cry of a truly transient soul.

Keeping with the Latin (while also referencing my current city of residence), I decided to mirror the same idea. Those who know me know I have walked many different roads since graduation from high school. With the longest time in one place being nine months, my life has been anything but stationary.

Therefore, as I deliberated upon my time in Mobile, I regarded the city as just another dot on the map—a blip on the radar, a beat in the steady rhythm of motion. I made plans in my head, a timeline in my thoughts. I decorated my new house, picked out my new dog, walked the trails winding near my house in the mountains. My eggs were in one basket and hatching fast.

Those of you beyond me in wisdom, years, or both, know what comes next. You know of Life’s tendency to see our cards and bet accordingly. You know as soon as plans become concrete, the wrecking ball of circumstance turns them to rubble.

It may seem surprising I am just now learning this lesson, and be assured it’s not the first of its kind to cross my path. Several times in my adolescent naivety, I was sure my heart had found its counterpart, only to be surprised by reality. However, this is the first time such a lesson has crossed from relationships into the realm of my career plans. Every other decision in this vein: Italy, Canada, Bryan, Nashville—worked without problem or difficulty, a fact perhaps most noticeable in my time in Nashville. I literally packed my car and drove to Nashville without a job or a place to live. Within a week I had both.

Based on these previous experiences, I believed my time in Mobile would be spent choosing another destination and preparing for departure. I didn’t even bother unpacking. However, as March turned to April and became July, a slow and steady feeling of unfamiliarity crept into my head. Questions and doubts reproduced like rabbits in spring.

What happens if I don’t leave? What happens if I don’t find a job? Where am I going to live? How am I going to pay my bills? What will I do for the rest of my life? What happened to my independence?

It was the first time I had decided to do something—planned everything on that something—and then had that something take a train to Denver without so much as a kiss goodbye. I panicked. I realized I was completely helpless when it came to making my mark on the wide open world.

(Admittedly, there is something we call “The American Dream,” which says each of us can become anything we want to become. Each of us has the power to pull our lives from the gutter by our bootstraps. I cannot say this for certain, but I would imagine that if one were to choose the greatest examples of the American Dream’s fulfillment, one would find several instances where the dreamer was aided by forces beyond his or her control or knowledge. Charitable donors, prestigious sponsors, freak accidents, or other factors which offered assistance in the dark)

The realization of helplessness collided with determination and the two waged war for several months before I succumbed to a lack of control over my life. No matter how many hours I scoured websites, called principals, or emailed resumes, there was nothing I could possibly do to create a job. Sure I could increase my chances with persuasive cover letters, personable phone calls, and genuine hard work, but when the sun set I was just another pawn in the hands of the Master.

This struggle had severe affects on my physical, mental, and spiritual health. Physically, I was exhausted. Mentally, I was devastated. Spiritually, I was starved.

In God’s grace, He allowed me the wisdom to see only one of these areas of my life provided peace. I had come face to face with my physical helplessness so that route was closed. My mental health has always been fragile, and I would rather trust a feather not to float than to place any authority on my mental fortitude. Therefore, the only possibility of strength and stability was my spiritual health, and I pursued it with the fervor of a starving man at feast.

“Seek and you will find.”

Each day, God continued to give me a passion for Him and for His Word, and each day I found my perspective shifting from my future to His Future. He blessed me with friends who enjoy my company and encourage me to be content. He blessed me with parents who are patient and supportive. He blessed me with a job to pay immediate bills and allow for the occasional entertainment. But most of all, He blessed me with a constant reminder of my complete reliance upon Him for my future.

I would like to say this means I am without problem or difficulty, but those of you who know the Christian existence, know this is not a promise He will make. Most of the time, these problems are the result of my stubborn attempts to guess God’s next move and act accordingly. I only hope He continues to force me to a place of humility, a place where I surrender every ounce of control to Him. I only hope He doesn’t grow impatient with my interference and give up control to myself.

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A farmer lived with his wife in the fields of Northern Missouri. Together they passed through each of Love’s unique and beautiful stages. The man was a bit quiet, the woman a bit stubborn. The man a bit wise, the woman a bit of a pest. Each Sunday they drove a dusty road, through dusty pastures, to a dusty church. It was the only time they rode together, and for good reason because throughout their marriage the man had never once allowed the woman to drive. Now, some might think this extreme, but he had his reasons. You see, he loved the woman more than he loved anything. He loved her more than the sun when it rose over the valley. More than the sky when it rained on the barn roof. He loved her more than he loved himself. And the man knew, if he ever let her drive, she would hurt herself beyond repair. She pleaded, cried, kicked, screamed, and cursed, but his zeal outlasted and each Sunday he drove in silence, listening to her rant about the unfairness of things. Some weeks she instead coached him on every aspect of driving, as if to show him she was capable of handling it on her own. “Turn here. Watch out for that car. Put on your brake. Go faster. Go slower.”

For thirty years, this continued until finally, for a reason the old man never admitted, he handed her the keys and opened the driver side door. She nearly fainted onto the driveway but managed to slide into the seat just the way she had seen him all those years. She shifted into gear, backed out of the driveway, and roared down the gravel road like a comet streaking across the sky.

They never made it to church. They never made it a mile. The truck veered off the road and into a dry riverbed. The man pried his door open and pulled his wife from the wreckage. She was alive. Her face was scratched, her arms and legs bruised. Blood trickled down her neck. The man wiped it away and held her for several minutes. Everything was motionless in the riverbed until the woman stirred in his lap and handed over the keys.

The next Sunday, the woman, in all of her bandaged humility, sat in the passenger seat. Silence lasted until they reached the second turn, when through muffled gauze she whispered, “You’re going to slow.”

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I know this analogy isn’t perfect, and I am sure some of you will draw some ridiculous conclusion that I am somehow against women driving or against women in general.

The point is: I am the woman. We are all the woman. I tell God what to do. I scream and yell and cry because I think He should have done something differently. I cry injustice when I am not allowed to make a decision for myself, or when a decision I make is not allowed. Even though, in all of my life, the only times I neared destruction occurred when I was behind the wheel. In my head I know each second I am in charge is a second closer to my soul’s demise. Yet I still want control. I still feel some strange urge to critique His driving, when what I need is to sit still and appreciate the scenery.

So for now. I am in the passenger seat. We have stopped in Mobile, Alabama, and we will leave when He is ready to leave. I am very much enjoying the scenery, the relationships, and the growth of His Spirit within me. Foolish of me to think one had to be physically moving to be considered a wanderer.

We are all wanderers.

Far from home.