Some of you may remember Zig Ziglar, the grandfather of the modern professional speaking industry. I recall him talking about people who approach life as though they don’t want to leave home until they can be assured that every traffic light between here and wherever they’re going will be green.
Which, when you think about it, would certainly make driving easier.
It would also mean you’d never leave home. Nobody can give you that assurance. You can know where you’re going. You can have a pretty good idea how to get there. You can check the traffic via Google Maps before you leave. But sooner or later, you have to back out of the driveway and deal with the lights as you come to them.
I have another driving idea that seems connected to that. I don’t particularly like driving at night anymore. I used to think nothing of it. These days, given a choice, I’d rather make a long drive while the sun is still up.
When I do drive at night, I certainly can’t see all the way to where I’m going. Half the time, I can’t even see to the next mailbox. If I’m driving home from Nashville, my headlights don’t illuminate the road all the way from Nashville to Maryville. That would take some impressive headlights. They illuminate a relatively short stretch of pavement in front of me. And somehow, that’s enough.
I can drive hundreds of miles at night while never being able to see more than a small part of the road ahead. As I move forward, the light keeps revealing more. The road I couldn’t see a few moments ago becomes visible when I need it.
I think I forget that sometimes when it comes to the rest of life. I want all the traffic lights to be green. I want headlights that illuminate the entire road. I want to know how everything is going to work before I begin. So sometimes I wind up sitting in the driveway, so to speak.
I know this tendency particularly well because of my ADHD. I can get overwhelmed if I look at an entire project all at once. Writing a book is a wonderful example.
I’ve written several books. I have three in process right now. I know how books get written, but I can still look at the idea of writing an entire book and think, “How am I supposed to do all of that?” In that moment, I’m trying to hold the whole book in my head at once, and my head has too many leaky places.
Years ago, I picked up an idea from Anne Lamott’s wonderful book Bird by Bird. She used to keep a one-inch picture frame on her desk. When writing felt overwhelming, it reminded her that she didn’t have to see the whole story, like trying to see the whole world. She only needed to write what she could see through that little frame, the little bit in front of her at that moment.
I adapted that idea. Back when 35mm slides were still a thing, I took an empty slide frame and taped it to my computer monitor.
Some of you remember 35mm slides. The rest of you may need to consult a museum.
But that little frame stayed there as a reminder. I don’t have to write the whole book right now. I just have to write what I can metaphorically see through the frame. One scene. One paragraph. One idea. Maybe one sentence. When I do, another bit comes into view.
I think there’s something deeply spiritual about that. We often want God to give us the whole map. We’d like to know where this is going. What’s going to happen with the job? How is this relationship going to turn out? What are we supposed to do about this problem? What will next year look like? For that matter, what will next Tuesday look like?
But God seems remarkably reluctant to provide that kind of information.
Jesus taught us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread.” Daily bread. I sometimes wish he had said, “Give us this quarter our quarterly bread. I can put the rest in the freezer, vacuum sealed to protect it against freezer burn.”
That would make planning easier.
But there’s something about daily bread that requires trust. Enough for today. Enough for this part of the journey.
There’s an old verse in Psalm 119 that says, “Your word is a lamp before my feet and a light for my journey.” I like that image more the older I get. A lamp for my feet isn’t the sun lighting up the whole landscape, or even a searchlight. It gives me enough light to see where I’m putting my foot next.
That can be frustrating when what I really want is everything around me lit up like a whole football field, at least. But maybe sometimes faith is simply trusting enough to take the next step.
That’s especially helpful to remember when life starts feeling overwhelming, since sometimes the question, “How am I going to get all of this done?” is just too big a question.
I can look at everything I need to do this week, everything I’m worried about, everybody I need to respond to, every project that needs attention, every loose end that needs tying up, and pretty soon my brain does what brains sometimes do when presented with seventeen urgent things at once. It seizes up like an old car engine out of oil and decides to do none of them.
Maybe you know that feeling. At those moments, I’m learning that I need a smaller question. (Notice I didn’t say, “I have learned.” I’m still learning.)
Not, “How am I going to get everything done?” Just: “What’s next?”
What is the next thing I can actually do?
Maybe I can answer an email. Maybe make the phone call I’ve been putting off. Maybe wash the dishes (which sometimes feels good just to accomplish something with a definite beginning and ending).
Maybe I can write one paragraph.
I can’t save the whole world. It’s not my job. But I can sit down beside somebody who needs a little company.
Sometimes the next thing I can actually do is admit that I’m tired and go to bed.
Maybe my next best thing is to pray, “God, I honestly don’t know what to do next.”
Sometimes that may be the next faithful thing too.
I think we occasionally make faithfulness more complicated than it needs to be because we’re trying to be faithful to a future that hasn’t arrived yet. We’re worrying about mile 383 when we’re still at mile 12.
We’re waiting to see whether the traffic light six intersections from now will be green.
We’re trying to write chapter fourteen while staring at a blank page in chapter three.
And meanwhile, there’s enough light for the next few feet.
There’s enough bread for today.
There’s something visible through the little frame.
That doesn’t mean everything will work out exactly the way we hope. Sometimes we reach the next intersection and the light is red. Sometimes there’s a detour. Sometimes Google Maps lies and the road we expected to take is closed altogether.
Faith doesn’t guarantee green lights. But we don’t need all the lights to be green before we leave home. We just need enough grace for this moment. Enough light for this step.
Then, perhaps enough light for the one after that. I don’t know what the rest of your week looks like. You may not know either. In fact, life being what it is, I’ll venture to say you may think you know, but you probably don’t, not really. Maybe you don’t need to.
Maybe the question for right now is simply: What’s next? And can I trust God enough to take that step?
Father, sometimes we want you to show us the whole road when what we really need is enough light for the next step. Give us grace for what is in front of us today, and help us trust you with what we can’t see yet. When we feel overwhelmed, help us notice the next faithful thing and give us courage to do it. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
