Sometimes I think life is just one long road trip. We make plans, pack our hopes and dreams in the suitcase, and aim ourselves toward whatever destination we believe will bring clarity or meaning. But the more life shifts, particularly in the days, weeks, and months since losing John, the more I realize most of my deepest encounters with God have not always happened when I made it to my destination. They have shown up in the quiet spaces between point A and point B. Sometimes those encounters happen in the back of an Uber while talking with the driver. Sometimes he shows up in airport lounges or on a local tour. God seemed to show up in those seemingly small moments when nothing looks different on the outside, but everything inside of us is pivoting.
I remember one afternoon when my daughter and I were sitting on the floor at the airport eating pizza. Our flight had been delayed for a couple of hours. Everyone around me looked restless and irritated. People were pacing while staring at their screens and sighing loud enough for us to hear. Some of them were griping at the person beside them. I was no different. I was anxious to get where I was going, and flight delays always seem to heighten my travel anxiety. Then something small happened. A little girl sitting across from us began singing to her stuffed animal, barely above a whisper. I did not know the song, but her voice was calm, steady, almost like a prayer. Right there in that packed-out terminal gate, surrounded by tired and grumpy travelers, I felt a sense of peace begin to settle in my heart. It was as if God leaned close and said, “I am here too.” I had not been praying; I was complaining in my mind. I had not been searching for comfort; I was leaning into the anxiety. I was reacting to the situation I had found myself in. Yet, God showed up in this ordinary moment.
There have been other times like that. Shortly after John died, I took a trip just to escape the painful reminders of his loss. I had this primal need to run off to a place far away in order to catch my breath somewhere other than Houston. Grief traveled beside me the whole way. While I waited for the plane to take off, I stared out the window and caught a glimpse of the fire station where he had worked. In that moment, I was both unsure and afraid of who I would become now that he was gone. In that moment, I heard a gentle reminder deep in my spirit that I was not alone. I was reminded that God would help me get through anything that I faced.
I also think of a night when I drove around my hometown for no real reason. I had nowhere to be and nothing to accomplish. I just needed the hum of the road and the permission to sit in my grief without talking to anyone. I turned off the podcast that was playing on the radio and let the silence wrap around me. I have always had a difficult relationship with silence. Most of the time, I am afraid of the silence because of what it might bring up. Somewhere between my house and nowhere in particular, tears came without warning. They weren't tears of grief exactly. The tears were more like a release of the pressure of appearing strong that I had put on myself. The quiet moment felt thick with grace, as if God had slid into the passenger seat to keep me company. And I knew I had been so focused on finding some clear destination that I had forgotten to notice God had been with me the whole time, even in my confusion.
On that trip I took to escape the pain, I went on a hike through a Colorado forest that looked like a winter wonderland. On the trail, I learned a similar lesson. I had stopped halfway up that steep and rocky path to catch my breath. In that moment, grief descended on me, and it felt heavier than the backpack I was carrying. A woman walking her dog down the trail I was trying to ascend slowed long enough to tell me the view from the top was spectacular, but the hike up the trail was just as beautiful. She told me to keep on, keeping on. She continued on, but her words settled deep. It felt like God had borrowed her voice for a moment to let me know I did not have to reach the summit for the journey to matter.
What I am learning, slowly and imperfectly, is that there is no final destination in my journey of faith and grief; rather, it unfolds along the way. There are so many opportunities and moments that show up. More often than not, it shows up in the kindness of strangers who do not even realize they have been used to deliver a message I needed. God does not sit at the summit, waiting for us to pull ourselves together. He walks with us through airport delays, sits in the empty seat next to us on the plane, and hums softly in the car while we navigate detours and missed exits. So, if you find yourself in a season that feels like the future without your loved one is daunting and confusing, a season where the path forward is unclear, or the destination has shifted, would you please hear this? God is not asking you to rush. He is not waiting for you somewhere that is far ahead in the distance that you can barely see. He is already beside you. Right here. In this moment. In this place between destinations.
