The Peak of Inspiration

I will go before thee, and make the crooked places straight:  I will break in pieces the gates of brass, and cut in sunder the bars of iron.  Isaiah 45:2

Have you ever walked a path, one that you thought was untraveled, and started noticing things, little clues that someone had been there before you?  Footprints in some of the softer spots.  Logs rolled to the side.  Rocks turned over and out of the path. Evidence that someone, at that very moment, was ahead, seeing things that you would be very soon.  Experiencing your future before you got there.

Some years back we visited a big, unfamiliar city.  Went to see some family and, while we were there, to visit some of the historic sites in that area.  This was a very old town.  Narrow streets.  Angled roads.  And people.  Lots of them.  We (wife, family and I) were in one van.  My brother-in-law with his family was in another.  He was familiar with these parts, I was not. 

I do not do well driving in cities.  I’m a country boy, raised on single lane fieldroads.  I like space around me.  I like to see the road stretched out ahead, and empty.  I like them to meet at right angles.  To be able to see my destination a few miles away.  I think the Kansas plains did that to me.   When you’re in Kansas, you know where you’re at.  You can see where you’re going.  You can get your bearings from the elevators on the horizon, or the wind towers, or, in my case, from the trees and grain bins at the old home place on the hill. 

The point I’m trying to make is this.  The chaos of the city and the comfort zone of the country were worlds apart.  Locked in traffic on those old brick roads, with a child that suddenly needed a restroom, not knowing where we were at, much less where we were going, I wanted out.  I thought a helicopter would be nice.  Drop down, pick us up, swing us over to one of those dirt roads where all is quiet and predictable. 

Only one thing saved me.  I had a pilot car.  My brother knew the roads, knew where we were at, where we wanted to go, and how to get there.  And really, I had one job.  To follow.  That was difficult enough.   I lost him a time or two.  But here’s the great part.  He anticipated that, stopped, waited, and when I came around and caught up, there he was.  Still in front, still doing what pilot cars do.  Leading the way. 

There’s this thing we talk about, we call it the future.  Sometimes in enthuses us.  Time passes slowly and we count the minutes until we can get there.  Sometimes we are indifferent to it.  We shrug our shoulders and mutter things like, “we’ll see how it goes” and, “cross that bridge when we get there”.  As if no plan is maybe the best plan. 

And sometimes, it scares us.  We peer into its dark and foreboding depths, trying to discern something familiar.  Something that we can anchor to when we get there.  Maybe a spot where we can just get out of the traffic and take a break, gather our strength.  Calm our nerves.  But instead we see more overwhelming circumstances.  More congestion, less progress.  Claustrophobia and fear.  Failure and disaster.   

We’ve all faced these times.  Sometimes it’s of a financial nature.  An unexpected setback, crop failure, or job loss. Maybe a relationship fails.  Sometimes a child thinks another path is the right one.  And sometimes it starts with a doctor consultation that includes the word cancer.  Whatever the circumstance is, it’s all unfamiliar ground.  We don’t know where we’re going.  All the experience we have accumulated is useless.  All the theories, discussions, and lessons studied become almost meaningless.   We would like something or someone to swoop down and scoop us up.  Take us back to a place where the surroundings are familiar and the road predictable.  To trade the here and now for what was or what could be. 

For the trusting heart, a beautiful thing happens.  Out of the fear and uncertainty, a car emerges.  And over the noise and confusion of all the what-if’s and if-then’s, the driver of that car calls out.  Not in a loud voice, but completely confident.  “Follow me, I went ahead and scoped it out.  I found a path that will work just fine.  Something that you can handle.  I fixed a few of the tough spots, moved some boulders and opened some gates.  I’ve been there, now I’ve came back for you.  I know the road, and I know we’ll make it.  … I know the plans I have for you…to bring you to an expected end.”

I’ll tell you what is on the other side of that traffic jam.  On the other side of all that congestion, confusion and noise.  Our pilot car knew where he was going.  We followed, and we came to a place as unlike the Kansas prairie as can be imagined.  A harbor, calm, cool and quiet.  We gazed across it’s expanse and watched the ships come and go.  We sat on a grassy slope and ate some seafood.  We viewed a skyline that was familiar to folks like Paul Revere. It was worth it.  And I was glad I hadn’t had a helicopter.  That my pilot had stuck with us and seen us through. 

There’s another side, something at the other end of what we’re facing.  We’ve heard it talked about.  People write songs describing it’s beauty. We want to get there.  That’s our goal.  But the future is between us and it.  It’s unknown and many times unfamiliar.  Sometimes it looks manageable.  Sometimes it doesn’t.  But you can find comfort in this.  Someone is there right now.  Looking it over, choosing a path, eliminating some hairpins and unlocking some doors.  Every morning, he comes back to where you are, and calls for you to follow him on a path that he is completely familiar with.  Just do that.  Follow the Pilot.