March 24

If my husband’s grandmother had even been to Nashville, it was many, many years before the birth of her great grandson.  When she was brought to Nashville, via I-40, to see this new member of the family, she did not enjoy the ride.  “It’s boring on a highway.  I missed coming through all those little towns,” she said.
 
Her words came back to me as I considered my life’s journey.  For many years,  I was on a highway that had been laid down for me by my family and my culture.  I was expected to go to college, get married, have children, be a good citizen, go to church on Sunday, donate to a worthwhile charity and, at some point, die peaceably.  I was to steer the car of my life down this well-paved highway.
 
Fortunately I ended up in a ditch where I learned that life would be more of an adventure if I turned over the steering wheel, if I made a decision to “turn my will and my life over to the care of God.”  As I was helped out of that ditch, I learned about the deadening effects of self-will and of living my life according to the expectations of other people.  Once off the traffic-congested high way, I met others who had had car trouble—or drug trouble, or family troubles, really all kinds of troubles.  Together we are finding a way Home via the backroads—which, it turns out. Are much more interesting.