One of my favorite moments when I travel is when I arrive at a destination when it's dark outside. My head hits the pillow with a restless kind of satisfaction, anticipating the dawn shedding new light on an unfamiliar but surely beautiful place. It is the most wonderful thing to wake up and have your breath taken away by whatever's on the other side of the windows. Sort of like when a friend you've been missing lately comes in town to surprise you and the hug from behind catches you waaaay off guard, in the best way.
My most recent travels have, of course, been full of these moments - Airbnb stops in little mountain towns and waking up from passenger-seat naps to the Glenwood Canyons. That type of stuff.
But my final destination? San Diego? I've been here before. Twice. You know that, because of my obnoxious social media presence. (Let me live.) I even arrived last Wednesday with some daylight left. I know exactly what it looks like.
Except I don't.
The past week and a half has been like those nighttime arrivals around the clock. I'm here, I can see the beauty around me. But the metaphorical sun hasn't quite risen yet. Not all the pieces are in place. I'm not quite settled. It feels like I forgot to put my contacts in and everything's a little fuzzy. I can't quite tell what things are actually going to look like.
Who will I be friends with? Where is the money gonna come from? What lessons does God have in store for this summer? When will I get to go back home? Will I ever go back home?
I can't see it. I'm squinting hard, asking daily, hourly, every time a worry crosses my mind. God, where? God, when? God, how? God, who? God, why?
I'm not kidding, every minute I ask another question. Usually one of the same ones. You'd think God would have put a do-not-disturb sign on the door by now and called security to drag me away.
But of course He hasn't.
I have had multiple moments where I feel physically dizzy from the uncomfortableness. I want to pack up my little car and trek home. After a week and a half, I'm ready to throw in the towel every other hour. All I can do is breathe and ask Him again,
Are you sure you're going to provide? Are you sure I'm supposed to be here? Are you sure you haven't abandoned me?
His unwavering, gentle yet firm answer:
When have I failed you?
Welp, I've got nothin'.
So I rest in His words, lean into the uncomfortable reality of my present location, and ask for the strength to keep pressing forward.
I had a gut feeling as I planned to embark on this journey. I knew it was unlike anything I'd done before, and I knew that God wasn't going to let me get away with a four-month vacation. This was going to be no walk on the beach. Pun intended.
But I had no idea it would be like this. I've never known utter dependence like this. It's humbling, it's scary, it's uncomfortable. But you know what it is most?
I am reminded every day that the best thing about me is the Holy Spirit inside of me. That if He's all I have, I am living in abundance.
"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly." (John 10:10)
Jesus doesn't say He wants us to have life easily or comfortably or where we know everything that's around the corner. But he does say abundantly, which I think is better than all those other words.
He is always working, always speaking, always paving the way for abundance. The questions I really should be asking are more like these:
Am I watching? Am I listening? Am I responding?
I'm just trying to pay attention to Him and not much else for now. I'm trusting that one of these days, I'll wake up and see the sun shining on all of my newly-answered questions and everything will be clear. Until then, I'm resting easy with my head on His shoulder while He's at the wheel. We'll get there soon, I know it. And I've found that He's a pretty damn good driver - much better than I am. Maybe I'll let Him drive me around for the rest of my life.