I don’t remember the last time I took a late night drive just because.
Tonight I took one because I needed to get out of the house. It had been me and the baby in the living room for most of the day, and I needed something to get me off the couch.
So at the late hour of 6:30 (ha!) I loaded my fuzzy dino pj’s and knit sock monkey hat-wearing boy into the carseat and headed 30 minutes north to the Co-op. For some diapering supplies and a bit of grocery shopping.
I wanted to listen to worship music in the dark in the car. I almost never want to listen to Christian music, and for whatever reason, I tend to want to when I’m sad. I’m not really particularly sure why I was sad, but I was. And a late night drive and some worship music fit the bill.
At some point, a guitar riff started, and I thought it was Ryan Adams. Only that wouldn’t make sense because I’m PRETTY sure that Pandora wouldn’t play Ryan Adams on my “Glory Revealed” Christian worship station. And it turns out, it wasn’t Ryan Adams, it was another one of my favorites. It was Caedmon’s Call, “40 Acres.”
My eyes welled up. Because the song helped me finally realize what I was feeling and why I wanted to listen to worship music in the dark. The feeling of sadness mixed with loneliness that I was carrying in that moment was the same feeling I used to have when I’d listen to that album 12 years ago. Then I was a different girl: a college freshman in Indiana, filled with expectancy and pain and hope. Now I am a mom and wife in Washington, filled with expectancy and pain and hope. And it was the same set of lyrics:
There’s 40 acres and redemption to be found
Just along down the way
There is a place where no plow blade has turned the ground
And you will turn it over, ’cause out here hope remains
‘Cause out here hope remains…
The song was a gift tonight, reminding me that in the moments that I’m sad, that the same God is here as was there. Reminding me that my life is on a trajectory, and that each of these places is a part of the story. Reminding me that it’s all connected. Reminding me I’m not alone.