THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED

I just returned home from a weekend in the Hill Country. I drove my big ass car all by myself. And I got lost all by myself.  Coming and going.

What should've been a six and a half hour drive ended up taking seven hours. Coming and going.

I will admit that my sense of direction is not much better than Stevie Wonder's sight. Still, I'm blaming my lostedness on my low-carb diet.

Carbs give me clairity. And hope.  And happiness.

Nothing happy about This Diet. I can eat anything but sugar and bread and dairy and, well... food. Hardly any carbs. And I'm pretty sure my Spirit Animal is a Carbohydrate.

Whatever the reason, I missed my turn in Abilene. Bless my heart, I was halfway to Fort Worth before I realized my mistake. After much swearing and gnashing of teeth, I somehow stumbled back onto the loop (AKA: The Circle Of Hell). But then I needed to pee. At a Stage 4 level of bladder distress.

I stopped at one of those multi-purpose stations where you can get gas and Burger King fries and a passport and a shower and very likely, an STD.

I mowed over three burly truckers on my way to the restroom and made it Just In Time. I promised myself I would be more disciplined about doing those blasted Kegels.

As I exited the restroom, I noticed a huge sign hanging over the deli: “WE SELL BLUE BELL ICE CREAM”.

I immediately performed a military precision pivot turn and headed straight for the dude behind the counter.

“Blue Bell?” I asked in a reverent whisper. “You have BLUE BELL?”

“Well... not exactly. I mean, we WILL have it when the trucks make their way up to us.”

“And when will that be? Today? Tomorrow?” I asked hopefully.

“Uh, no ma'am. It'll be at least January.”

I tried to hide my utter disgust as I dismissively nodded my head and headed dejectedly to my car.

Not ONLY had I gotten lost in Abilene... my Blue Bell hopes had been crushed to smithereens. Clearly, the universe was in cahoots to keep me carb-less.

Miraculously, by the time I arrived in Fredericksburg I had regained my will to live.

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On the way back home, I found myself lost again.  But This Time, I found salvation instead of frustration.

I had been on the road for less than half an hour before I realized my mistake. Driving into a strange town was my first clue.

I parked in a empty lot in Harper-Freakin-Texas and pulled out my well-worn map (soiled with shame) in an attempted to find myself.

According to my calculations (nebulous,  at best), FM 634 was only a half-inch long and would get me to Mason much quicker than backtracking.

So there I was, cluelessly traversing the backroads of the Hill Country. No phone service. No GPS.  No carbs.   No hope.

Trying to make the best of it, I put on a James Taylor CD and began performing Kegels to the lucid tunes of Fire and Rain.

But then... I started to notice the spectacular scenery outside my windshield. Slowly, I found myself relaxing and actually enjoying my impromptu detour. Because really, who could possibly stay upset while passing flocks of fluffy sheep and herds of long-horned cattle grazing on miles and miles of rolling Texas ranchland?

Apparently, not I.

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I saw the cross from way down the road.

It was beautiful. At least 10 feet tall and made out of hand-carved wood.

Awed by the beauty of the cross, it took a minute before I noticed the old rancher.

He was kneeling on one knee with a hand touching the cross and the other holding onto his cowboy hat. His head was bowed in prayer.

I quickly took all this in as I drove down the country road. When my heart caught up to my brain, I wanted to make a U-turn and go back to the cross.  But I didn't.

I realized what I had witnessed was holy and ordinary; precious and personal.

I imagined the rancher performing the very same ritual every single day of his life... saying his prayers at the cross.

Completely unaware of my presence.  

But I couldn't stop thinking about him. Of his humility and vulnerability.

Of his faithfulness.

These are the days where the darkness of the world is often overwhelming; where the hope of a brighter tomorrow seems like a foolish dream. Where listening to the news becomes a daily test of faith.

Yet, all it took was the sight of this singularly righteous rancher kneeling in front of a cross to restore hope, renew faith and to remind me that God sometimes sends us down the road less traveled to refresh our spirit.

I was so humbled by the old rancher that I said a special prayer just for him. I prayed that God would deliver Blue Bell straight to his door. 

On earth as it is in Heaven.

In Jesus name,

Amen.