Run Out of Road

 

Run Out of Road

(“How often I’ve longed to gather your children, gather your children like a hen, her brood safe under her wings—but you refused and turned away!” Luke 13:34b [The Message])

It seems certain now, after observing you from afar,
that you may have run out of road and are spinning your wheels
in the sand.
It is understandable,
knowing only the route you pursued,
but honestly, it escapes my reasoning and knowledge of
your surroundings why you don’t raise your eyes,
look around,
and notice the desert you drove yourself to.

It seems evident how, for how long and for deeper still,
you yearned for a badge of courage, a congressional medal,
an emblem earned to show your commitment to
machines that mowed down the opposition well,
and how certainly you remained true to a narrative
no better than a fairy tale.
What you failed to observe was
the magic kiss you wanted was just in front of you.

It seems ages ago, the first time around, your maiden journey
circling certainty. The snow swirled around the asphalt like
snakes before you found the tracks of previous drivers.
Safely you navigated icy patches with nothing but the taillights
of big rigs to guide you. You arrived. You sighed in relief.
You were safe. And you were lost. Waiting out the storm was
the only choice to make.

Though you did not know it, there was a course correction
waiting for you in that cold café with more space heaters
than tables. The dark wood paneling may have hidden the
wandering one from your view, or you may have been too
busy reading to see him. He longed to loan you his parka,
drive an extra mile with you, and to shield you from the coming
blizzard that would disguise the road back home.

But you finished your breakfast, nose in the best book,
sucked down the remnants of your coffee and walked past the
man in the corner who rose to meet you, who always rose
to meet you
in every rest stop along the way.