I Hate Buses

     I hate buses. Not the city, public transit type. The cross-country sort. Probably more succinctly, I don't trust other drivers on hills. When I was in high school, I went to an intensive week-long diversity training camp. On the way to the Methodist retreat center where it took place, our travel bus broke down on the crest of the very large hill. And then the brake systems failed. Thankfully, instead of tumbling off the very steep right side of the hill, we careened into the trees on the left. I like being in control of the vehicles I am in, especially in hilly areas.
     This past week, I had no choice but to be led where I wanted to go, but certainly not the method I wanted to take. We flew to Cuzco, and then drove south along the Trans-Oceanic Highway (TOH) to Andahuaylillas. This area is one of the most spectacular I have ever seen, both in terms of the nature and human-made places. Andahuaylillas is home to "The Sistine Chapel of the Southern Hemisphere," one of the most gorgeous churches I have ever encountered. From there, we continued another 3 hours south on the TOH to other small towns where the Jesuits work. We hired a driver for the day and rode in his Euro-style 11-passenger van. It was literally a white-knuckle ride. The speed limit was 30 kmh (19 mph), and even slower on the turns. We were certainly above that. We squealed around hairpin turns and passed trucks on blind hills. Trust was the most I could do.
     This was a place I have found myself on spiritual adventures as well. I am reminded of the end of the Gospel of John: "When you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go" (John 21:18). John notes that this is how Peter was crucified, but we can find other importance in the passage as well. We often take adventures in ways or to places we do not want to go. I remember frequently finding myself restless and quite cold on riverbanks in rural Missouri. Half the time, I had no idea why I was there. The Holy Spirit was happily driving along, laughing as we went up on two wheels around spiritual cliffhangers. I wasn't even allowed to pick the music--Jesus took my iPod and wouldn't give it back. "You will listen to Frank Turner and like it, damn it!"
     By the return portion of the trip, I was feeling more confident in the driver. He slowed a bit as we passed through some clouds in the mountain passes. We still took turns faster than probably safe, but here I am writing this post. I still had to brace myself on the seat in front of me. This was more for the comfort of Matt, who was sitting next to me.
     The same seems to hold true for much of my prayer. I can say, "Trust, trust!" all I want. If I don't actually practice, it's a moot point. I could have refused to ride in the van and stayed at the retreat center in Andahuaylillas, but then I wouldn't have seen this:

     If I choose to avoid the places or ways God leads me, then I'm missing the same spiritual picture as well. The Spiritual Exercises are made up of four weeks--sin, the life of Jesus, the death of Jesus, and the Resurrection. You can't get to the Resurrection without passing through the execution. As we go deeper into our spirituality, as we get older like Peter, God begins to dress us. We no longer demand an individualistic outfit, but follow where led. The next hard part is making sure we follow the right voice, which we must save for another post.

Next week: National Park Recommendation

AMDG,

Ken "Headed Stateside" Homan