Morning Traveler

I left the house a few minutes later than intended, so the drive to school to get my son is rushed. I don’t want to speed, but I want to hug the speed limit. One mile into the eighteen-mile drive, I am behind a driver without that same commitment. As the car in front of me moves slowly along, well below the limit, I allow myself to become frustrated and annoyed. After fifteen miles of following unhappily along winding country roads, I hit the open highway, make a break for the left lane, and watch this fellow traveler disappear in my rear view window.

With my son now in the car, I head back across those very same roads. The autumn leaves are a delight. I take in the views of the ponds that we pass, and enjoy looking at the barns. Thirty minutes earlier I had been pressing on stressfully to reach my destination; now along these same roads I am pondering the beauty of the journey. When I look at the dashboard, in fact I am now the one below the speed limit, happy to take my time, knowing we will eventually get to our destination.

I recognize these rhythms. The first trip pressing on with stress toward some goal, perceiving obstacles, not enjoying the journey one bit. The second a peaceful meandering to a destination I love, making progress on the road, but savoring the journey. It strikes me that this second trip is what God calls us to as we journey to return someday to our heavenly home. God calls us to be grateful travelers, not with our eyes down, glued on a lack of progress, but looking up with a deep gratefulness for the experience and with sweet anticipation of being welcomed home.

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

MATTHEW 11:28-30

In early 2003, a few friends and I began having regular playdates.  We had infants who were born with Down syndrome, and gathering was great fun, overwhelmingly supportive and crucially encouraging.  We were starting out on a journey unfamiliar to us, as mothers with children who have Down syndrome, and traveling together as we started out was truly life-changing.  It moved us from despair and loneliness, to joy and community.  As new families joined us, and it seemed necessary to give our little playgroup a name, I suggested Morning Travelers, to signify we were at the beginning – the morning of this journey – as mothers with children who have Down syndrome – and we were traveling this stretch of our road together.  The name stuck.

A couple of years ago, I engaged a social media advisor, to talk through whether I needed to move away from this idea of being a Morning Traveler.  I was now fifteen years into that journey.  Her view was that Morning Traveler – and the meaning behind it – seemed to be applicable to many undertakings.  Often in life we will be setting out on a new journey, and needing to find our way. Sometimes we will have the benefit of community, as I did in early 2003, and sometimes we will go it alone.  Having reflected on her comments for a while, I have decided to double-down and claim I’m a Morning Traveler for life.  There have been, and will be, many times when I will benefit from reminding myself that I am facing the dawn of something new and unknown, that I am not paralyzed, but always moving, navigating a new terrain, with a mix of trepidation, confidence, wonder and faith.

I’m at this place in the road now again, as I send my first son off to college.

This is tiring terrain, much of it steep.  But the road is long, there will be rest along the way and as a Christian, I believe God’s Word will shed light as I move forward in the darkness.  Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path, says Psalm 119.  The wee hours of the morning are dark.  The journey does not begin in sunlight, but the sun always rises.

On we go.  I invite you to walk alongside.