When you’re trying to MacGyver your broken glasses so you can somehow see after accidentally tearing your last pair of contacts and then later contemplate rinsing off the breakfast bar you dropped on the floor so you can eat it anyway (#fivesecondrule), you know your day is going to be an interesting one.
Or in my language, you know you’re about to have a day. And because you’re a trooper, you put on your bravest face and try to make it work anyway. But because you’re a human being with limits, you end up crying in a Starbucks a few hours later over a likely fictitious scenario. Demurely, of course. Because God forbid anything else.
Whenever I have such a day I count myself lucky that, even though a good number of my friends are scattered about the continental United States, I still have a handful of people that can support me in person through said Starbucks sobbing. But human relationships have their limits. So this is where I too count myself lucky that, even though I am at times more wandering than unwavering, I still have a steady relationship with my intuition, the Universe magic, and God.
So much so that when I’m struck by spontaneous whims that are rather ambitious (read: driving 1.5 hours eastbound for a grand perspective shift after said day) I don’t even blink twice. I just…go. And when I just…go, I can feel the story that I. must. share. writing itself inside me as I live and breathe something different — something holy — for however long I feel compelled to.
And because most storytellers are inspired by other storytellers, I’m going to use the 4 Lindsay McCaul songs I listened to tonight to punctuate the story from here out.
Say My Name: You say my name and tell me there’s a better place; lead me to Your sweet embrace. I can hear You calling…
There were moments when my car was barreling down the Long Island Expressway, and then slightly less maniacally down Montauk Highway when I, fully cognizant yet nearly dreamland bound, recognized that my soul was out in front of my body galloping like a wild horse to meet God out in East Hampton.
And by God was it beautiful there. The midnight sky, speckled with stars, pressed deep down on the wild ocean at Main Beach, but didn’t contain its spirit. The waves of said ocean, far out in the pitch black, played tag with one another down the shore. And I was sat upon the hood of my car oblivious, for once, to the strange, dark night that I was alone in.
It was magic and exactly the kind of awestruck I needed to shake myself out of my day and into the lesson that God had for my heart that night: how to stay graceful under persecution (real or imagined). I set out for dinner, satisfied and satiated in the soul.
I got ready to head home a few enjoyable moments after chowing down on pommes frites and Malbec. And I switched songs (and moods alongside it).
Every lamb-in-the-lion’s-den moment I’d experienced in the last year flooded my brain and came out through my eyes with the longing, needy crying of a child with skinned knees, who is sitting in the lap of its parent who let go of the bike too soon, asking “But why?”
Take My Hand: For a moment I was brave and strong but now everything is going wrong. Didn’t You know that I’d be scared? Couldn’t You see I was unprepared? I’m not asking for reasons You hold or the safety of land; I just need You to take my hand…
All I could see were the moments in the dark where I felt alone and lost making decisions I wouldn’t normally make and spending time with people I’d otherwise dismiss (for very legitimate reasons). And furthermore, how those moments in the dark, though distant, are still affecting me today. I just couldn’t understand why God let go when I still clearly needed training wheels.
Hold on To Me: All I’m standing on is all my good intent as I get swept away time and time again. I know I need You now to do what I can’t somehow. So hold on to me ’cause I’m not good at holding on, I’m weak. I guess that’s how this is supposed to be; when I am barely holding on You hold on to me…
I gripped the steering wheel tightly, nostalgic for the last hour, because I knew I wasn’t just heading away from the Eden that was the quiet starry night. I was heading back toward real life too. The one with a thousand tiny hells — those moments, people, and opportunities that separate you from God — waiting around each corner.
And I didn’t want to go.
I didn’t want to leave the God of East Hampton, who showed me an amazing night sky that took my breath away and left me gazing at it longingly like a lovesick puppy, for the God of Huntington, who tests me and my grace, patience, sincerity, and devotion on the regular.
But then — isn’t there always a but then? — about halfway through my trip, I caught a gleam of a bright star in the corner of my eye and remembered the shooting star I saw earlier when I pulled over before fully, fully leaving East Hampton. And with a wave of relief and release, my signature smirk — the one that’s both fully content and slightly mischievous — crept across my face.
Where Do You Go: So where do you go when there’s no voice from heaven? Where do you go when all you have are questions? Maybe the silence is His mercy and there’s beauty in His mystery; You should know you’re not alone wherever you go…
I realized I took the stars with me. Better yet, I realized I have always taken the stars with me. Because it is all real life: the Eden’s and the tiny hells. And with that being true, it was no longer a day, but a Good Day.