Allow me to say it up front: I hate driving. I don't think it's that much fun, and I'm not naturally good at it (which means that often I AM that terrible driver you probably curse at sometimes. I sincerely apologize).
This summer, I have been blessed with the chance to live in a neighborhood that is a 25-40 minute drive from everything: from my sister's school in one direction and my dad's work in another... from my VBS in one direction and my church in another... from the actual city in one direction and the community college in another. In fact, there are three community colleges in my county, and I live 25-40 minutes from all of them.
What this means is that I spend a LOT of time in the car. Every morning I drive 30 minutes to the college, and every afternoon 30 back. Sometimes I hit rush hour both ways, which makes it longer.
And I'm so grateful.
My commute means that I pray daily, whether I mean to or not. I was struggling a lot the first few weeks of summer to hold myself accountable and seek God when my life was so mundane that I was neither drawn to Him by overwhelming joy nor driven to Him by difficult circumstances. But put me in the car and oh boy. Every day I get to work in one piece is a miracle, and every minute behind the steering wheel is a minute of active reliance on God. People are stupid when they drive, myself included--with as many close calls as I've had and as few accidents (zero), I will never underestimate the ability of God to use the same thing to draw AND drive you to Him. Every day if need be.
Speaking of stupid drivers, my commute means that I see my sin. How in the world can I be so ungracious as to mutter at the person going 2mph under the speed limit? But I am. Once upon a time I thought I was patient; I don't kid myself any more. Also, interacting with people when we're all in enclosed metal vehicles means that my self-centeredness is totally unveiled. I am the only person on the road I know about. I know my needs and my story, and everybody else may as well be a computer player in MarioKart. They are vehicles, not people. ...except that they are people. Oops. As long as I am driving, I doubt I will ever ascribe perfection to myself.
So, when I turn off my inner analysis-monologue? My commute means that I can practice silence. Silence. Focus. Complete distance from Facebook, texts, and (in a car with a broken cassette deck, no CD player, and no radio stations I like) music... there is exactly one task at hand, which is getting where I'm getting safely. If I'm doing other things, that first one is in jeopardy (which is usually the case, but there are few things that motivate you to singlemindedness like the choice between 'distraction' and 'death').
But sometimes my commute means that I can listen to Tim Keller every day. In the mornings the traffic is usually tame enough that I can handle a sermon podcast on my phone. And there is nothing like a theologically sound discussion of the Lord's Prayer at 7:15am.
And if I decide against both of those, my commute means that I can sing as loud as I want, up to an hour a day. And there's not a lot more to say about that.
Finally, my commute means that God really does turn our least favorite things into incredible blessings, which I probably should have figured out sooner... but driving? Who would have thought? How silly.
One of the things I was most scared about for this summer has turned out to be one of the things I'm most thankful for. But (let's be honest) I still hate driving.
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