There is a stretch of road between leaving and arriving that belongs to no one — not to the meeting just ended, not to the house waiting up ahead. I’ve been thinking about what happens in that gap, and whether God lives there too.
Lord,
Meet me in the in-between.
In the drive home no one witnessed — the stoplight where I finally exhaled, the overpass where something almost came loose in my chest and I wasn’t sure if it was grief or just tiredness or maybe both at once.
I was trying to hold it together in there. You know that. I’m not sure if I succeeded or just got away with it for another day.
Be with me now, in the unperformed minutes. The radio off. The window cracked just enough. No one needing anything from me for a little while.
I don’t have a request exactly — or maybe I do and I haven’t found the words yet. I think what I’m asking is just: stay close. Through the surface streets. Through the garage door grinding open. Through whatever comes next.
Amen.