A Gift In It All

…and then I didn’t blog for, like, 2 months.

Sure, there is that writ-bit on prayer just below this.  But that was really a transcript from a lesson I taught, more than it was an original blog piece. 

Here I have left the audience, small as it is, hanging with a “part 1” post about wasting time.  (I know, you barely noticed.  I’m okay with that.)  I did post a reflection a month or more ago that a couple people may have caught, but I nixed it because it was lame.  I started a piece on an eighth grade remembrance, but it landed in “The Cutting Room” file.  I started an expositional piece on the idea of fool in Proverbs 26:4-5, but it wasn’t even making sense to me so it died.  

Truth is, for a few months now I’ve struggled to stack paragraphs or string words together in a manner that I feel is compelling to read.  I heard writers call this “writer’s block.”  I’m not sure I’m a writer in that sense, but it has certainly felt like something in my mind has been blocked up.

But then I was given a gift in it all…

In 1998 a good friend, Dave, and I embarked on a road trip around the western United States.  We were looking for everything a couple young 20-somethings look for out on the road.  I’m certain we found it, along with plenty of snow, wind, and rain.  It was an El Niño year.  From the high pass peaks of Utah to the low Mojave flat land, the weather was anomalous.    

The sun finally threatened to brighten our journey as we came into Bakersfield, CA.  This from my journal:

“We got to highway 46 and that drive west was beautiful.  Lush and green.  Rolling hills and wide valleys.  Cherry trees and wine vineyards.  Finally, Route 1 up the coast.”

The ocean always has and always will have a nostalgic appeal for me.  It’s tied to several remembrances of my Dad and not a few stories of personal surrender.  Here at the coastal break was the threshold of long days spent driving slow with windows down and shirts off.

We began maneuvering the gentle curves of the old highway on our way to Monterey.  The waves were huge.  The coastline was a feast of crags and color.  It was everything to keep my eyes on the road.  Not 40 miles on, however, things changed. 

El Niño rains had washed out portions of the highway.  The road through Big Sur to Monterey was closed.  We would have to take a detour. 

The arrows pointed up.  Not “up,” as in ahead.  But literally up.  The double-digit grade of the road that would reroute us around the missing highway was nearly more than my little car could handle.  Having to leave the coastline for some upcountry ranch region of California was nearly more than I could handle. 

These months of “mind-block” have felt much like leaving the whimsy and wistfulness of the ocean in the rearview mirror and heading up a hill of unfamiliarity.  All the freshness and creativity that I’d become accustomed to vanished.  All the wavy prose and rhythmic language that others used to pat me on the back about stopped short.  All the satisfaction of “well done, Andy” faded away.  Where in the world is this steep crumpled road taking me?

Dave and I finally reached the top of the hill.  It felt like we were miles away from the coast.  We followed the detour arrows around tight turns and down narrow straights without seeing a single soul.  Part of the drive had been wooded, which felt weird having just come from the ocean.  But the ocean was back there somewhere and I was lacking hope we’d see it again. 

Then we were given a gift in it all…

We came upon a Mission.  I don’t know exactly where it was, because I didn’t know exactly where we were.  I’m sure it had a name and it may even be on a California Mission’s tour map somewhere.  Frankly, I’m not concerned about that.  Just the sight of it was, for us, a gift that seemed to make sense of the road block and give worth to the detour.  Someone had been this way before and set up a sanctuary for worship.

Not long after admitting the reality of this present “mind-block” I unpacked my journals looking for inspiration.  Each evening I’d sit in bed with Amy next to me reading her book or working on Bible study, and I’d carefully pour myself over these precious annals of my life.  There before my eyes were…

Quotes from preachers I’d listened to and admired. 

Scripture verses I’d written out, memorized, and meditated upon. 

Prayers I’d prayed for people I loved. 

Devotional notes from extended quiet times near ocean beaches. 

Personal daily reflections on the seasons of the life I’d lived.

And all at once it occurred to me – and I thanked God profusely for this – that here was the gift in it all.  Here was not a source of inspiration for award winning blog posts, as though there were such a thing (and as though I could ever win one). 

Here was a Mission; a sanctuary alongside an unfamiliar road that settled in me the anxiety that accompanies an inability to express my thoughts.  Here in these journals I held in my hands was my life’s record.  Here was a gift from God to remind me that someone had been this way before; someone, namely me, had traveled the steep grades and tight turns and narrow straights of challenging seasons many times prior to this “mind-block.”  Here was an encouraging mantra that this “mind-block” would not last forever.  One day, in fact, it would be a gift itself for another season of this life I live.

Presently, however, it is not so much the duration of the detour that has impacted me, but the reality that in the detour are good and perfect gifts.

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.”  - James 1:17