Taking the scenic route...

In college, following cherished afternoons at my sister's house, I was often found en route from the north side of Indianapolis to my college home to the south. Driving down 465, I happily anticipated cutting west on 75, watching the city skyline grow up into full view. On special days, tossing time constraints to the wind, I took the exit ramp onto a side street, yearning to be stitched into the city scene that I so admired. While my wheels carved out the right angles of the city blocks and my feet danced between accelerator and brake, my eyes took in the people cutting along the sidewalks through the maze of high rise buildings. From the ranks of lights lining the offices above to the sleepy lights of the cafes below, the old adage rang true: a city never sleeps.

Though I may have sacrificed some valuable studying or sleeping to take these detours, I knew I wouldn't regret taking the time to divert my attention from the destination and enjoying the ride.

People often say it's the journey, not the destination that matters the most. I tend to agree, especially in light of my recent fixation with planning for the future. I am discerning the best way I know how: praying, seeking counsel from the Body of Christ, using my God-given intelligence, and trusting God. But, more often than not, an additional component tends to sift its way into the discernment process, threatening to spoil its crop: worry. And, I believe that the seed of this worry is pride and mistrust. This is inexcusable because I serve an all-knowing God. He is bringing me on this journey of discernment to teach me more about Him. Knowing the author of my life gives me insight into the storyline, but my story is only an excerpt of His larger, more important story.

Ultimately, though my life doesn't regularly admit it, being a Christian takes away the guesswork from making decisions about vocation because the journey and the destination are one in the same: knowing God.

"A man plans his course, but the Lord directs his path." Proverbs 16:9
I'm planning my course, but I will go on whichever path the Lord leads.

Heave-Ho

I limbered up the dirt road as the suns last rays slouched through the bare trees. The thatched roof of the old inn, in great need of repair, was a sharp contrast to the majestic mountain view climbing up behind it. That’s how I felt: just like the old inn, sitting in the valley with a great view of the highlands but no hopes of rising up to meet them. It had been weeks since anyone had rented a room at the inn. Only months earlier, this valley was teeming with vacationers from all over the country. Who could blame them? What was once the gem of our nation, a valley brimming with hopes and dreams of newlyweds was now empty and the flames of silver-haired couples still burning brightly have long since been replaced by smoldering coals. The threat of our nation’s upheaval by the bordering northern state had driven away the visitors of the valley. And, for what? So the Paranians could gain control of our valley and use our mountains as their fort against the nation’s southern capital.

As my fingers wrapped around the doorknob, I hesitated to enter. How would my wife feel about this? What of my daughters? Are they too young? I have no choice, I told myself decidedly as I turned the knob with a new sense of duty and direction only to be sunk by the two sweet faces that presently came running up to me as I stood in the doorway. Their dark eyes and rosy cheeks, the very vision of their mother’s could melt even the heart of pharaoh. With my two daughters wrapped around my knees, I felt the warm loving hand of my wife reach around my neck and draw my face in near. She is like a flower that blooms all year long. Neither the brisk winds of autumn or the icy cold snow of winter could fade her beauty or resoluteness. Her grandfather fought to keep this valley and these roof-top mountains in the hands of patriots like himself, and the same thick blood ran through his granddaughter’s veins. Surely she of anyone would understand? "Darling, come," she pleaded. "I have something to show you." The girls grabbed their coats as if on cue. She led me briskly through the kitchen, grabbing a basket of hot biscuits, and led us all straight through the back door. We walked down the stony path through the gardens and past the meager rows of corn before I was able to catch my breath. "My dear, what is the meaning of this?" I spouted. "I’ve been hiding this from you far too long, darling. You must trust me; come on we’ll stop to eat later," she assured me.

The view ahead was spectacular: the sun was dripping behind the mountains ahead splashing hazy colors across the sky. The girls skipped along like a pair of butterflies dancing through the tall grass as together we headed toward the base of the mountain. I thought back to that late afternoon when the girls were first birthed. It had been a rare day indeed. The midwife had been standing by for hours wiping the heavy drops of sweat pouring down my wife's brow as she struggled with the labor pains. For one brief moment, the groans stopped. I, listening from the other room, peered in anxiously to see what was the matter when I noticed both my wife and the midwife looking curiously out the window. When I stood to get a closer look, I witnessed the moon eclipse directly over the sun and all at once the world was dark and quiet. In that very moment, the cries of my first-born daughter Luna could be heard. And in the very next moment, as the moon ceased to breach the light of the sun, so did Luna’s shining sister Sol break forth from her hiding place. And as for my wife, her joy was made complete and with a sigh of relief she looked lovingly into her daughters’ eyes, beaming as Hannah did unto her long awaited son.

As I looked up my wife had stopped just at the base of the rising incline of the mountain. She was unfolding the blanket she had resting under her arm and beckoned me and the girls to join her on its protection from the undergrowth. I sat down gingerly by my wife, touching her arm only softly as she began unrolling the biscuits and handing them to the girls. "My dear, I have something to tell you." My words sliced through the stillness awkwardly. "Oh darling, can’t it wait." she retorted, with a sudden sharpness in her voice. She continued, "I’ve been trying to tell you this now for weeks, but I didn’t know how you would take it. I know how much you love this valley, and I do too. But, the risk here is too great and I think it’s high time we close in on this mountain we have so often gazed upon and surmount it." I followed the direction of her hand as she pointed to the grassy knoll peppered with tiny rocks leading up to the base of the mountain and the rocky trail beyond leading sharply upward. "My great grandfather traveled down this mountain a hundred years ago to begin a new life here in this valley. It was to be for him and his descendants a place of wonder and excitement, peace and comfort. And it has been all these and more for us. But, those days are coming to an end. He wouldn’t have wanted to see the valley in the hands of brutal heartless men, and neither do I. I’ll be damned if I watch my girls grow up under the harsh rule of a dictator who believes that the world is better off without mercy, love, and forgiveness. That a person’s worth is better measured by the color of their skin than by the character of their heart. Lead us up this mountain, darling. Lead us into the future that awaits. Lead us from the danger that ensues. Or, by god, I will lead myself and our young daughters on my own." Oh God, I had thought my news would crush this young wife of mine. But her spirit was even more emboldened than I knew. "My dear," I began, "I had no idea you had such plans. I would have thought that like your ancestors, you would want to protect for this precious land which was so carefully and dangerously sought out." I paused and went on, "I had planned to tell you when I arrived home earlier this evening of my decision. I will join the local armies banding together to fight this ruthless dictator." The urgency in my voice was rising. My fear of her response only making my words more brash and resentful. "I will not allow the bones of your ancestors to be spat on as we turn this valley to our backs without a second glance. I will stay ---" Just then, my words were drowned out by the explosion resounding from the East. I looked behind us to see our shed going up in flames as the loud shrills from my daughters filled my ears. The wishes of my wife would be abruptly granted as in one breath I grabbed Luna in one arm, Sol in the other, and ran fiercely up the hill. My wife followed only a few paces behind having grabbed the food basket and blanket, our only supplies for the long journey ahead.

Years later, I recalled that dreary evening sitting in a lonely pub far to the West of the rising peaks. The Paranians had moved in sooner than we thought, sooner than any of us in the valley thought, and our only hope was to flee. The owner of the pub pulled up his stool beside me, furrowed his eyebrows, and leaning in, commented in a low voice, "’ar ye a’right, chap? If I di’dnt know any better, I wou’ave guessed ye got the ‘ole heave-ho."

Staring into the empty mug below me, I thought about how I had never heard truer words. Yes, I had gotten the ‘ole heave-ho. I had been hurled from everything I ever knew and loved. Our valley of bubbling streams and mountain fortresses was now only a dream. And, the rugged mountains had claimed the lives of my praised wife and beautiful daughters in the months of harsh conditions that followed that late autumn day. Who could have known that the dangers we would come to face in those mountains were only a reflection of those we left behind. And, now all I could do was travel west, putting those wretched mountains behind me. I had had the wrong impression all along: Our weather-beaten thatched roof held all the majesty I could have hoped for and it was the mountains that paled in comparison. Yes, now I concerned myself with one thing only: to travel west. Hoping that if I travel far enough west, I will reach the east. Until then, the unfading flowers and the dancing butterflies keep me company.

the Hunter and the Deer

(a tribute to my friend Joelle who taught me about "cracking twigs")

the Deer stood silently
having spotted the Hunter in the distance

the Deer stepped out from its hiding place
to get a better glimpse of the Hunter

having failed thus far to make its presence known to the Hunter,
the Deer presently cracked a few twigs beneath its hooves.

now, the Hunter, having spotted its prey
raised his bow to shoot.

the Deer took rapid shortened breaths,
pondering its next move.

should the Deer stay put,
it'd be pierced by the Hunter's arrow and bound to him.

should the Deer dart away,
it'd be free from the grasp of the Hunter to roam freely.

only, one regret tainted the deliberation of the Deer:
would that the Hunter revel in sharing the same frame of space for a time.
would that that be enough.

would that be enough?
for the Hunter?
for the Deer?

The Wedding

Every step was wide but rhythmic and steady at the impulse of the beating drums. Though I could have reached out my arms and touched a dozen people all at once, not one thought was spared on fear of collision. Like a school of fish, the masses and I glided seamlessly forward over the grassy valley, the mountains rising up all around like an onlooking crowd. At the command of the awaiting groom, the prince of the air surrendered and the tamed wind snapped gently at our white attire. The many colors of skin accented the pure white of the clothing wrapped around shoulders, resting on heads, buttoned down the middle, and whipping through ankles. Our faces pointed ahead, eyes locked intently on a long-awaited dream, concealing smiles too broad and deep to be worn.
...

Leaving behind an echo of praise

My boots dug their heels into the crowd of leaves covering the back patio as the tears clung to my eyelashes in vain. There is no use denying it anymore. I took my last steps through my childhood house. Scanning my eyes across the backyard, the memories pushed and shoved to steal my attention. Sledding down the hill with Neil and Kim. Tossing cornhole with my friends. Watching Oliver strut across the patio. Hearing Dad call my name from the bottom of the basement steps. Mom's hugs. The more I remembered, the more I felt relieved that the sad song my heart was singing wasn't playing to the melody of a place but of a time that is now past.

As my feet crossed the threshold of the basement doors, I turned back my head to let the melody of worship bounce off the walls of the empty room, leaving behind an echo of praise to the God who lent us such a place to live and grow.

My foot pressed on the accelerator to lead me forward, and through the veil of tears I could see the ghost of a small girl running up the front yard as I drove away, wildly waving her arms goodbye.

Uncaged

To put the pin on where you've been,
to discover the ingredients
of the recipe previously hidden,

To unwind the tangles in your hair,
to move back from the edge of the chair
and exhale,

Oh, what relief
when the trouble is found
and the soul is unbound.

Once it is named
my growling emotions are tamed
and freedom is gained.

The Autumn Sun

An autumn sun setting behind the bare trees in the cool crisp air
casts a warm glow through the trees and over the field
exhausted from a day of fighting the overcast sky,
he gently lays down to rest with dignity and humility
for he knows that even when he is not shining,
he is still the sun