It seemed like a good idea and I needed the exercise. We don’t walk enough as it is and the repair shop where I dropped my car off early in the morning (so I’d be first in line) was only 2 miles from my house.
Even along an old industrial road, this cool, sunny morning makes for a pleasant walk. So with coffee mug in hand, flip flop on foot and the sound of car keys still ringing in the metal drop box, I set off for home grateful for a few minutes to lose myself in thought and enjoy the tide of sunshine rolling in along with the surf of rush hour traffic.
Like a runner, I prefer to walk facing oncoming traffic, the theory being that I can see what’s coming and have a few more seconds to get out of the way instead of being plowed down from behind. From my vantage point, the little things catch my attention: cigarette butts and tire weights on the shoulder, the pitch of the gutters that require concentration to walk straight so I don’t twist an ankle, clumped debris that didn’t wash away in the last thunderstorm, one too many ‘for lease’ signs in the shopping strips. But most riveting is the steel-belted radial wind rushing by with it’s doppler effect, concentrating my senses in direct and inverse proportion to the width of the shoulder, close enough to see the whites of their eyes unless, of course, they’re hiding behind tinted windows.
School busses, landscaper trucks with their trailers in tow, serious business types talking on speaker phones and carpool moms, some giving the courtesy wave, others staring intently at digital screens, oblivious to the vulnerable life form just a few feet away, a constant reminder that were I to step into the road, my pleasant morning walk (in particular) and my life (in general) would swiftly come to a most unpleasant end. There isn’t any doubt or existential questioning of this visceral and trustworthy roadside experience. I can see the bus and hear the engine, I feel the rush of air and smell the exhaust. My heart rate involuntarily increases and I lean slightly to the left feeling the dew drenched grass wet my feet.
So isn’t it astonishing that St. Peter describes the “prophetic word” as even more sure than the eyewitness testimony that he personally experienced? He was on that mountain with Jesus himself, saw the light and heard God speak audibly. I can only imagine the sensory overload of that event and yet he regards the words of scripture as even dependable than that. Let that sink in for a moment.
So between the Ford truck barreling down my 35mph neighborhood interstate and the promises of God in the Bible, I can actually be more sure of the reality and veracity of the Bible. That certainly doesn’t take anything away from the truck, but it indeed elevates the divine Word.
And, yes, as I type, I’m as keenly aware of how bad an analogy this dirty gutter in which I’m walking is to the ‘paths of righteousness’ as I am to the consequences of stepping out of it into the road.
But that same debris also reminds me that the circumstances I encounter in life, as difficult and confusing as they are certain to come, neither change nor diminish the absolute reality and dependability of the the promises of God. And for that I am thankful.