The Detour is the Road

At the beginning of the new year, before I got sick, I wrote about my practice of reflection, about the importance of looking back before resolving to go forward in a new year The last words I wrote on the blog were : If I resolve anything at all for 2022, I think it will be to pursue Truth, to kneel before Truth, to give my gifts to Truth, and if need be, to go home by another road.

“Be careful what you ask for”…the old saying goes. I might add, be careful what you write on the blog. It could be construed as prayer. It has been three months since I wrote those words and the road of 2022 for me looks nothing like I imagined. The road signs of the first quarter of my year thus far say things like “Detour: Road Work Ahead” or “Detour: No Thru Traffic.”

A few days into my hospital stay, a friend sent me a link to a new song. I couldn’t listen to it. The very title of the song, “The Detour,” brought up resistance. Detours mean delays. My 2022 had been slated to look like my 2021 - full time seminary and part-time job and squeeze a life somewhere into that…for one more year until I finish this degree. I was afraid if I listened to it I would cry and when you are trying so hard to breathe, things like crying or eating have to wait.

The irony is that I’d sat last December with my spiritual director and said, “I don’t know if I can do another year at this pace.” She’d given me this question to contemplate: What will it take for you to live 2022 well?

I don’t know what my answer to her question was going to be, but for sure I would not have said "be deathly ill and have my whole life come to a screeching halt.” I’d only wanted to make a few adjustments to live this year well. I didn’t want a detour, a rest stop, or a slow winding road through new scenery.

But just as I was beginning to contemplate the question, I got sick, and then I was in the hospital, and then I was hearing phrases like “long recovery” and “two months at home on oxygen.” On Day 11 in the hospital, I sat alone in my hospital room and cried. I grieved that everything in my life that had momentum had come to a full stop, including seeing and touching people I loved.

I was not sure what of those things would be returned to me. Among the questions: How long was I going to have to be isolated? Would I have to drop out of seminary? Would I be able to keep my job? Would I have to delay or end my diaconate ordination process? I laid it all (metaphorically) in my lap in that hospital bed and said “OK” to the Truth. I handed them to the One who breathed life into me in 1963 and sustains my breath now in 2022. What I did know was that I was not going to walk out of that hospital in a few days and resume my old life at full throttle.

Detours are never the fastest or most direct route. Often the scenery is better; the options for lunch are more interesting; and local color, more apparent; but, we usually don’t choose detours. They are not the well-worn path. They are usually the narrow way. The bright orange sign stops us. We are disappointed. Our plan, the way we have chosen and the timing of the trip are no longer within our control. We have to make decisions. We can abandon the journey or we can reroute. That usually means slowing down, losing time - which implies that the goal in life is speed and efficiency.

Is it?

I’ve joked with several people in these last several weeks about how inefficient my life is. When taking out the trash requires a breathing recovery period and getting dressed is considered physical exertion, you don’t accomplish that much in a day. This situation I find myself in strikes at the very heart of my enneagram 3 “Achiever” personality type. {Cue Alabama singing “I’m in a hurry (And Don’t Know Why)”}.

When I finally felt strong enough to listen to “The Detour” (and handle the tears that came with it), one line in particular spoke to me: You’ve been good to me, I am safe to hope. This notion of “safe to hope” resonates deeply with me. Hope is a vulnerable choice. And the more you put yourself in the position to hope for something, to recognize longing and cry out to God for it, the harder it is to face disappointment when it doesn’t come the way you thought it would. Our tendency is not to let ourselves hope. We want to stave off the pain of hope deferred. We don’t consciously choose despair or cynicism, but that is what sets in over time. We settle for self-protection rather than risk hoping.

Hope requires courage. Hope requires believing you will still arrive at the destination when the detour becomes long and slow and the traffic is backing up and the scenery is completely unfamiliar. Where does that courage come from? The song answers that question. I’ve got lots of questions, but I know the truth /That I have never lived a day apart from You..

Remembering. Reflecting. The character of God - who He is, what He has done in the past - is where our hope is safe. Kneeling before the Truth. For me, this has gotten very basic and embodied. Breathing. The words for spirit in Hebrew and Greek, ruach and pneuma, both translate to breath. “You are kind and close” the song says. Yes, as close as my breath.

What do we say to someone who needs courage? Take a deep breath.

Yes, take a deep breath.

Take in the Spirit of the Living God who is kind and close, who created the entire universe and holds it in place.

Take in the Suffering Savior who felt the pains and disappointments and griefs you feel. Breathe that in and have courage.

You’ll still get home, one way or another, and the detour is the road.