The Road Back

my parents front yard in baton rouge, louisiana

So often, I look for words to define a season of life, something clear enough to steady me for the road ahead. A name for what’s unfolding. Some kind of map.

And still, what most of us are actually living in is blurriness. Mystery. Maybes and half-opened doors.

There are things that grow far slower than I hoped they would, and other things that are here so quickly all I can do is blink before realizing what I’m holding in my hands.

Great is my wasted time.

And all the blueprints that go up in flames!

Still, I cannot believe any of it is meaningless.

There has to be something sacred here too:

a worn path.
a faithful friend.
a Savior.

Maybe this is part of being human, finding ourselves returning to the same road again and again, praying something desperate beneath our breath. No one is exempt from unbearable aches. And fulfilled longings are certainly a blessing; they matter deeply.

But even then, how quickly we find that familiar path beneath our feet once more.

Planting small seeds for the kind of joy that does not arrive all at once. The kind that is tended quietly over time. The kind that keeps us watering and looking again.

Because no matter the timeline of getting everything we once wanted, I think we all return here eventually, searching for home. Searching for the quiet presence of a friend. Searching for God in the middle of all the unknown.

And maybe the mercy is not that we avoid the road altogether, but that He keeps meeting us there.