Just a few months ago she made the comment, “I’m surprised you’re not anxious.” It seemed like a strange thing to say until I looked out the window and realized we were driving on an elevated highway.
I was surprised you weren’t there.
And today, as I head up the ramp not one butterfly flutters in my stomach. No elevated heart rate or hyperventilating. I’m curious.
Where have you gone?
Did you get tired of me doing this over and over again all the while being content with you? Did you give up because I didn’t? Because almost three years ago I made this commitment and you didn’t stop me? Because I kept going in spite of you?
All those years of trying not to feel you. All that time attempting to avoid you. Is this really all it took.? Accepting you might show up at times and that’s ok. That having you around doesn’t mean I’m weak or incapable. Nor are you or the lack of you a measurement of my faith. Did you let go of me in this, or did I let go of you?
It doesn’t really matter anyway. What does matter is I’ve learned your secret in the driving over this ramp.
You told me I wasn’t strong enough or worthy enough or good enough. For a while, a long long while I believed you. But not any more.
Because this ramp has taught me to trust. Not in myself. On my own I am not strong or worthy or good. On my own I am never enough. That is the one thing you were right about. But I’m not on my own. Never have been. Never will be.
There’s probably a moment or place on the horizon when you’ll show your face again. Don’t expect a welcome party. Don’t expect me to avoid you either. I’ll nod to you and acknowledge your presence. But I’ll not run or avoid or hide. Instead I’ll look up.
Look up and give thanks. For butterflies in my stomach and a racing heart. For shallow breathing and white knuckle driving. For every single time I breathe deep and keep going.
I’ll give thanks because eventually I’ll let go of you or you’ll let go of me. And in the end it won’t change the most important lesson this ramp has taught me.
You sir, are a liar.