I’ve been on the road quite of bit of late.

In fact, I have been one hundred and twenty miles on the road.

On foot.

In the past three months.

There is something almost Campbell-like in all of this. But instead of the Belly of the Whale, I have been bullied by the winding. That winding, twisting road that still lies ahead. If you stand still and listen closely, you can almost hear it:

“I’m still here. What are you just standing around for?”

Well, I might respond kicking my toe against the firmness of the road, I was waiting for the right idea. . .the right time. . .the right connection. . .

And, I’ve been reading. Oh. I’ve been reading. Last night, I got a copy of Anne Lamott’s newest book, HELP. THANKS. WOW: THREE ESSENTIAL PRAYERS. So, this blog post my be a little different than others you have read here.

But don’t stop here.

I mean. . .you’re here already. And I think you can help. By simply being here and affording me the opportunity to share some reflective stuff out of the reading.

Sometimes a book reads you. . .you know? And what you find is that you are not “finished” with a book, but rather you are “found” in the ending of a book. Or, maybe we are “refined” (a word I like to think of as a derivative of some poor grammar that suggested that you might of “founded something again”) in having read some book that taps into your being like some kind of spiritual spigot so lovingly, you are thankful that you are reminded that you are capable of sap (and in goodly amounts).

And then the road reveals itself.

All roads reveal themselves eventually.

Either in the turnabout, the cul-de-sac, and eventually. . .the dead-end.

But also off-ramp. . .the merge. . .if all drains lead to the sea. . .then all roads must lead away from me and closer and closer toward Thee.

So, this confession, I set down. . .right here. . .I’ll just lay it by the curb.

I’ve been like a toddler fixated, watching the stripes as they pass under the car, marveling at how these look like the laser guns in some sci-fi film. “Drive faster, Dad. Make the stripes go faster.”

I’m going to set this by the curb without any real concern for who might pick it up later, though I will be thankful for those who come by to pick up the items I leave there.

A concrete confession:

I was waiting for the asphalt to dry, waiting for an optimal time to lay down the striping.

But, I look to see there are smears in the paint. Yes. I can see while I stand with bucket and brush. With my coward’s yellow paint.

I can see where an intended stripe has been run over by some other passing vehicle that leaves echoes of the good intentions–the lines I might have written, the median between the good ideas of the past and those that might serve well in the future, the curb to set the bounds–all under the weight of the nameless tire of the world.

These lines are not mine. I will not walk by them.

This is not my course. I will not submit to it.

I am listening. And I hear my Maker quietly nudging, reminding, and challenging:

My son. . .I set this path before you. Oh. . .Why would you have ever paved it?

This morning, inspired by something I read, I asked a prayer of “Help” as I left my driveway for what was intended to be a two-mile run (I have come to find that my training program is a bit short-sighted). And as I neared the two-and-a-half mile mark of what would eventually be a five-mile run (I’m really quite stubborn sometimes), my time was a mere 24 minutes.

I was on the verge of setting some new personal bests. With some help. I set my Pandora station on the Casting Crowns channel and it has not failed me over the past two weeks. The “just-right” song comes on as a hill approaches and as a straight-away reveals itself. God works through the playlist and finds the right time. . .the right tempo. . .the right teaching. When I am open and receptive. . .not breathing with the asthmatic death-rattle of a laboring locomotive, but with the measured breath of a man moving.

Step by step. . .and in step.

And when our subdivision’s “heartbreak hill” loomed just as my program indicated four miles, I asked again for help.

Help to climb that hill. Help to reach the top and to have the tenacity still to stay on course (I might mention that my house is three doors down from the top of this hill. . .so easy to go right on home). Help to realize that four miles in with the potential to really really make some strides against my personal best five mile.

Wait. . .does this help prayer sound selfish. Let me re-frame the prayer. Re-fined it (ha. . .that was just too much fun. It’s my blog, I’ll tweak words if I want to):

Help me run.

Help me keep this pace.

Help me finish with passion. With purpose.

And if You would. . .without pain.

I turned around in the course I had set some two months back at forty-one minutes into the run. I could slow down and still beat my personal best. And this is when I asked for help again.

And set down a personal best time in my overall run that should have been this, but ended up being His.

If I may be so bold. . .I believe that you can run with God, in God. . .and for God. And I give this run to Him. All of it:

Best 1/2 Mile: 4’10”

Best Mile: 8’32”

Best 5K: 27’38”

Best 5 Mile: 45’50”

When I saw that time. . .I said in the words of Anne Lamott, the formal prayer of “thankyouthankyouthankyou” (read the book; this is a model prayer).

But when I finally arrived back in the driveway, I had to stop to take a moment of “Wow.” I felt great. And in this greatness, I found gratitude.

Help.

Thanks.

Wow.

I don’t know that you have ever me say things like this. Or write these kind of sentiments for the pleasure of the reading public. But, here they are.

They are for Him.

I hand my brush and my bucket to the One whose water colors the better part of my world, the same that flows within me.

To the One who paints the morning sky with broad strokes, yet calls forth the skill to reserve the finer lines for each blade of grass.

I submit to the voice that calls forth the very power of the universe and blows kisses to the dandelion.

And in this submission, I can be big as a mountain. . .and I can be small as the first breath given to me). When I sit perfectly still. . .and take that breath. I remember. This is why the first step in the breathing process is called inspiration.

And I remember that “Paul” means “little one.”

I’ll bet you already knew this.

It’s a good time to come to all of this. . .to put it down here. To share this with you should you stop by. If I am not here, I am not far away. Just a stretch down the road. Tack your comment to the tree at the end of the drive. I’ll see it when I get back.

There is a certain road I see. . .and I choose it. It’s way is straight and narrow. The destination is eternity though I know not the mile marker at which I stand at this very moment. Just to know that one foot goes in front of the other. And that sometimes there are stumbles, but to reside with Him in the stride. I hear the footfalls and note that the heel strikes are not my own. The Way is straight and laid out before me.

What did the sage say?

Lanes are what flatten when you are busy making more pavement.

Amen.