Roads

At the start of a gravel road,
damp rock gathers softly along puddled ruts
and evening stretches purely across the fields,
clarity waits in the open.

A church stands nearby,
its steeple catching the fading light,
its doors glossy with promises
of welcome, shelter, and grace.

Yet the windows seem too curious.

A welcome mat is unconcerned with time. 

The bell tower watches in silence, awaiting awkward dismissals.  

A place built for fellowship

offers the weight of being measured.

A place meant to ease burdens

seems eager to count them instead.

So the road becomes the kinder teacher.

It asks no questions of worthiness.
It demands no performance of belonging.
Its gravel does not care who you were yesterday,
nor who others insist you should become.

Each stone remains where it is,
certain without boasting,
valuable without declaration.

And standing between the church and the road,
the choice grows clear.

The steeple points upward,
but the road reaches forward.
One speaks of approval withheld,
the other of a place already given.

Fields do not question their purpose.
Wind does not seek permission to move.
Horizon does not apologize for its distance.

There, at the beginning of the gravel road,
with the church fading into the corner of sight,
a deeper truth settles into the heart:

Worth is not granted by unsteady voices. Belonging is not bestowed by fearful contempt. Some places promise a home yet offer doubt.

But the road, rough and ordinary,
reveals what was always there…

Your place in the world is not a seat waiting to be assigned, nor a hook to be hung upon, 
but a ground already beneath your feet,
stretching onward,
certain as the gravel road itself.