Photo Cred: Olivier Guillard

Photo Cred: Olivier Guillard

For six years, I've pinned my whiffs of talent to my work. 
I created this thing, this vehicle. And I was going somewhere, but I'm not sure I was on the right interstate.
See, I said, "God, I'm going to use what you've given me to tell an incredible, adventurous story. It's gonna be great." 
And I basically floored it. I went with my natural instinct and pinned it.
Don't get me wrong, it has been great. We've had some rippin' times.

But I kinda set this tone, this pace, without realizing it.
"God, here's the plan. You're going to help me tell my story. Seeing as I'll be using the talents you've given me, my bet is you'll bless it. Make sense? Ok, let's move."

I toiled and paddled and climbed and hammered away for years, entirely convinced. 

And then I ran out of gas. 
Screaming red gas light, dry as the desert, zero, empty, nowhere.
I pathetically puttered to the shoulder, pressed my forehead into the worn steering wheel and did what you do when silence moves in like overdue storm clouds.

I cried, man. 

And I got really pissed. Like, real pissed. 
I barked and cursed. I ripped the road map up. 
In exhaustion, I tilted my head, still glued to the wheel, and noticed someone walking up in the rear view mirror. 

He tapped His knuckles on the window and motioned His head,
"Shimmy over."

I slowly unlocked the door and sloppily sunk over to shotgun.
He rested two steaming coffees in the console and rubbed His hands together, blowing warmth into His palms. He stared ahead, taking in a deep inhale.

"That was always going to happen, Dani. That empty gas tank. You're trying to use what I gave you to tell your story, to serve your purposes. 
You're trying to earn my involvement.
But, you are who you are to point people to me, to invite everyone you meet into who I am.
I'm not here to tell your story. You're here to tell mine."

He paused as the most beautiful nod started rolling off my neck. 
For once, right when I needed to, I heard Him.
And I got it.

He nodded back, with this smile, this growing grin that stole me.

He squeezed my knee, "Let's go tell it."

I grinned back before my eyes slumped in rest, 
the turn signal softly singing me to sleep.