A 90-Minute Day

It’s 4:00pm. The previous six hours of work lie in the rear-view mirror and what’s left of the day is splayed open like an unwrapped Christmas present; all that’s left is for the corners to be folded down and to tie a bow around the top. The more difficult aspect of my job would have to be the commute – on my best day, meaning very little traffic, the best I can do is 45 minutes (driving non-sinfully) and the worst I’ve ever encountered is 90 minutes. A 90-minute day usually forces me to follow the speed limit, so there is less of a temptation to let my flesh take over the wheel, but on the 90-minute days there is enough angst and frustration going on within my heart to create plenty of other opportunities to sin – please pray for me and my commute. I say all of this in a slapstick manner, but of course, the ugliness of our hearts is never something to be flippant about, and though I do mean it in a lighthearted way, my drive to and from work does become strenuous at times.

By 6:00pm I feel I’ve put the bow in place, and although I do feel a sense of relief for the amount of work I was able to accomplish, there is a faint and distant spiritual nag starting to creep up inside my heart. Home feels a long way away. When I finally look away from my computer my stomach lets out the type of gurgle that one would feel a need to apologize for if they were in the presence of others. Despite feeling good for having checked a few items off the weekly tasks list, there’s an enemy standing over my shoulder and he whispers the four words he knows will cut best: “Should have done more.” I let the self-pity begin. Normally I’ll do my best to shrug it off, and say, “Not today Satan,” but by now I’m feeling particularly defeated and I’m anticipating all the ugly and potentially evil things my heart will do on the drive home. I get a sense that today will be a 90-minute day.

Suddenly I’m hit with a temptation to simply remain firmly planted in my chair; if I don’t move nothing bad has to happen. I can sit right here until any and all of the formidable feelings fade, maybe by then tomorrow will have come, and I will have been able to skip the drive altogether. In the back of my mind, I know that moments like this present opportunity: I can choose to sit in my misery and let the “woe is me” mentality dictate which direction I go next; or I can try to hand my desperation for control over to someone else – someone who can do far more and much better than I can. I take a deep breath, and I visualize what it looks like to let go, instead of passively sitting and simply waiting for the moment to pass, I hear a call to become active, even violent if I must; to intentionally picture the act of letting go, and to instead anticipate the freedom of handing over my need for control to a set of hands more capable than my own.

I begin to remember that Jesus is always in the room, and for a brief moment I dread how quickly that thought tends to be forgotten. So, I wait. Eyes closed, I bring to the forefront of my mind the image I have of Christ. The Bible often speaks of visions, I doubt what I’m envisioning is the same, but the moment has a type of intimacy, nonetheless. There is no way for me to accurately project the actual image of Jesus’ face so instead I picture His person – without any particular or distinct features I can imagine the personhood of Christ: His stature, His presence, His forgiveness, His grace. With my eyes still closed, I watch Jesus walk over to me. Without a way to capture the physical appearance of Christ’s face there is no way to see a facial expression, but I can feel as you would a physical touch, what I can only describe as a smile. I accept from Jesus an invitation to stand, and rather than an embrace, I look to see an outstretched arm.

Although on the surface it doesn’t appear to be, there is more to this gesture than a simple handshake. In the palm of one hand there is an offer of forgiveness. In the palm of one hand there is an extension of grace. In the palm of one hand there is an amazing love. The forgiveness of my inability to rely on more than my own strength; the grace that is needed when I see others as merely being in my way; the love that my soul is lacking when I allow my enemy to leave me in a place where I feel stuck; the person I need when I’m faced with a 90-minute drive and I find myself believing that my life would be perfect if I was already home. I see Jesus still standing in His same place, with an outstretched arm, and I realize that at this point I’ve left Him hanging.

It amazes me how even when given the opportunity to accept what I know my soul needs most; I can conjure up a split-second excuse to avoid the risk of facing my own fear: In this instant I imagine that once my imagination disappears, I’ll go right back to living as though Christ has left the room. A sense of burden tries to step into the room, accompanied by a spirit of doubt, the light that had been invading doesn’t disappear but seems to dim. It’s the fear of mistaking what’s true for what’s false that would like to interrupt this moment and insist that I’ve been sorely misguided.

Before I can ask why, I see Christ’s arm extend further. I glance back at the enemy who hides behind my shoulder, and say, “This time, it won’t work.” As an expression of what it takes to let go, I reach for the palm of the one I know I need most, and I’m met with a love I can tell is not fake. I open my eyes. My acts of fear and self-doubt seem to fade away in the background and I realize that Christ has not left, and that I don’t think He intends to. The drive home still lies ahead, but I’m reminded that I won’t be alone.