No Trespassing

10 days after writing this post―the one about a road I took that unexpectedly dead ended―I drove by and noticed a new sign at the entrance:

 

I laughed a bit. I like to think that I'm the reason they put that sign up, because it happened so soon after I trespassed. They must have been really angry at me to take such quick action. 

I know, I know, I was just another straw on the camel's back, probably not even the straw that did the breaking. Lots of people, seeing a road that appears to lead to a pretty somewhere, will drive up it.

When we first moved to this little town in New York, Mom&Dad spent some time exploring the back and neighborhood roads, seeing where they connected, all for the purpose of mapping out running routes. They'd use Google Maps to get an aerial view before running down a road. However, frequently, a road that, according to Google Maps, was a through road, was physically posted as a dead end. Without fail, my parents believed Google over the sign. Without fail, a ways down the road they were forced to turn around because a bridge was out or a fence was up. 

I could probably draw some comparison there, but this blog isn't about them. It's about me, remember? The one who writes about her life to fuel some form of narcissism. 

As this applies to me, then, if it's not readily obvious, I've been thinking a lot about dead ends. Thinking, not writing, these past 2 weeks that school's been out.

Christmas was the day I was looking forward to. I did know that the horizon would cease to be the horizon when I got there (C.S. Lewis paraphrase, if you will). I also did know if I got to Christmas, it would mean my stats classes were over and I'd almost finished working at Old World. Well, stats is over―totally nailed those classes, somehow. But I'm going to keep working for quite a while and next semester, accordingly, holds no grand (planned) adventures―just 18 credits worth of psychology credits. Don't get me wrong, I have a moderately positive outlook concerning those classes. I wouldn't be in college if I didn't want to, wouldn't be sinking money&effort into an education if I didn't believe it worthwhile. I do enjoy school. 

However, it's not Italy. Even just three months ago I was tentatively planning on being back at SBI for the spring, on staff. But that road dead ended when I realized, first, that it wouldn't count as my internship until the semester before graduation, and second, that I had no way to pay for it. 

The next road that dead ended was the road to Florida. I wanted to go down with my friends, the Slack's, and help with the church plant; or course, with an ulterior purpose of successfully playing hookey to saying yet another goodbye. The main intention was an extended visit, a visit where I could explore the option of staying. Needless to say, matters of practicality reared their heads again and the road dead ended. 

Those are the two plans I'd specifically put into motion, but there were also Plan C's, D's, and I's in my mind (probably all Plan I's, actually). I thought about moving in with various friends out-of-state, or, more plausibly, going to campus in Lynchburg. All dead ends. Not dead ends because God verbally told me "No" or I had one of those senses... Dead ends because in flesh and blood it wasn't working. Cars break down. Laptop computers break down. Life breaks down.

So, this winter, I am here.

A few months ago I swore "here" is where I wouldn't be. 

I'm swallowing this cup, but I'm choking on my pride. Again. Because, again, I get this vague notion that God, through all these physical dead ends, is saying what I'm doing―missions in Italy or FL or going to a cool school with a synthetic ski slope―doesn't matter. 

It just doesn't. Nothing does. I mean, fearing God and keeping his commandments matters, but the method of outworking them doesn't. Loving God and telling people about him here, or loving God and telling people about Him there. In a big house, or a little house, in the country or the city. Whether you have your own place, and maybe a husband or wife, or you share a room with your three younger sisters. Whether the people you're telling want to eat you, or think you're cute, or don't care. 

From a human perspective, some places are just more fun to be, and have better "feelings." I have to work hard to find those feelings around here. 

Not that any of that matters. At least, I don't think it does. Maybe I'm wrong. 

Not having it matter is rather freeing, though. Also quite certainly very depressing, but freedom&no rules means the spark in my heart won't go out.

A tinge of freedom is very welcome when bound by schedules written by bosses and professors and cars that don't go far and little apartments.