The Struggle Bus

The struggle bus isn't so much feeling defeated and tired and deprived of every good thing and yet are forced to move on with life. It's a place to recover when all that happens. The struggle bus is a safe place to look out the window, know the Lord is good, and when you're ready to be on your on two feet walking out your path, you can.

And that is the vehicle I have been riding the past four days. Every insecurity I ever thought I may have was confirmed on Friday. The feeling of defeat is sitting on my heart. My friends are broken and my dreams are fading and failure feels inevitable. On this struggle bus, I'm passing that afternoon when I was nine and it was cold. My mother picked me from carpool and we went home, swaddled ourselves in blankets, and drank hot chocolate. The feeling of total comfort and peace exists. I know it, I've felt it. It just happens to be absent right now.

The bus seat in front of me has all kinds of grafitti torn into it by Swiss Army knives and pencils: "Jeremy was here," "Life Happens," "I <3 John." The notes of my predecessors, who are probably frolicking in some distant field. I imagine they turn their heads just enough so I can hear them say "It's possible."

Because it is. Living in the romance of the past is atrophy, living in the romance of the future is deception.

Victoria Park, Guess Where 

This place exists. The rumble of this bus goes on and on because as long as the bus exists, we know that there is a place to recover. We know that recovery is possible.

Much love,

Em