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.
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.
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.