There you are, cruising along, heat pumping out of the vents in front of you, tunes wafting out of the speakers, engine purring along like a happy cat. Then you hit that rough patch, that stretch of slick-as-snot ice that sends you spinning like one of those Olympic ice skaters, and you watch the fields and snow and trees and mountains play across the screen of your windshield like some amateur music video, and you watch as the ditch rushes up to you and takes hold of your forward momentum and uses that against you, like some perverse martial arts master, and then the force of you moving forward turns into a gravity-defying lift upward, and you watch as the cab tilts and all the pens, coffee cups, notepads, and book bags you have in the console and on the seat next to you suddenly lift off and fly across your field of vision as you slam into the door and come to rest on your side, music still playing, engine still purring away, dirt now blocking your view out the driver's window as sky fills the passenger door window, now above you, and you realize that you live by grace, a fine line between all that is necessary to hold the parts of you together, working in concert to keep you breathing, living, loving, and the dark night of mystery. This time, though, you take the hand offered that lifts you up, away from that precipice, and rise back up, into this the light of living, and, for this moment, out of danger.
No comments:
Post a Comment