The Dusty Road

It's on an average Sunday that I get up and drive out of my life in a minivan. It takes at least five hours to alternately pack two small bags that contain my clothes and my computer, and read old books like Harry Potter to stave off time. The sun is baking merrily outside, but I'm not feeling it on the inside. For a while, I'm not living. I'm just moving my legs and arms and breathing. The leaves I brush past aren't living things to me, and beyond the sunshine, I can tell no sun.

I pass Zzyzx Road somewhere along the middle of a bleak, dusty, trodden freeway. I wonder where all those lonely roads trail off to? I happily blot out the day that the Lord hath made with my music player all the way until the little thing breaks. It's not till I'm in the bathroom later in the day that I remember for the umpteenth time that I'm not being laden with problems--I'm being blessed because I'm of the dust. It's hard to love your family, especially when you're a particularly volatile mix by gene, and you're crammed into less than 100 cubic feet of moving metal. But we're getting by, and I pray that I'm learning something. My bible is locked in the trunk, conveniently tucked away from its master. So I'm going to peer into the unfathomable Englishe of the King James Version of E-Sword tonight. I'm in Flagstaff tonight, and I expect to be in Alberquerque tomorrow.