At first, the wilderness appears wide open. It is unexplored. Who knows what wonders wait to be found.

When we first moved to Florida, we were eager to explore new roads. We caught glimpses of water – river or ocean – and we pressed on. But the river always remained hidden behind endless waves of Spanish moss. The ocean was a mirage, a blue spot on the GPS we could never quite reach.

The real ocean hid behind grassy bluffs or gated mansions. Park your car and pay your fee, and you’d find it. But it was not open to the wanderer. To those with a car full of kids who only wanted to drive and believe they were free.

Wilderness roads are straight roads. To meander without a plan across a network of straight lines will only lead to disappointment. There can be no circling back in some surprising way. There is only that moment of disenchantment, that moment when you agree it is probably best to turn around.

The wilderness looks like a spacious place. You cannot see the edges, no matter which direction you look. But there is no real spaciousness here.

In the wilderness, you wander but you are also hemmed in.

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I grew up with the siren song let’s go for a drive. When my parents couldn’t take our squabbling for one more minute, they piled all four of us in the station wagon.

Where are we going? we always asked.

Crazy, my mother always answered.

Years later, heading out for a long drive became our favorite date. Especially in the spring. In the spring, you never knew when you might round a bend and find yourself slowing, slowing, and finally stopping to watch the wind dance in a field of bluebonnets. We’d park your pickup truck by the barbed-wire fence and roll down our windows.

All the better for watching flowers dance in a field we happily admitted we would probably never find again.

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The roads are my favorite thing about my new home. This promised land.

They are narrow and curvy. They force a slower pace. You must stop at every bridge to let the car opposite cross first. You often find yourself caught behind horse-drawn buggies or herds of Sunday cyclists.

In this place, there is no scenic route. There are only the familiar roads, with their familiar beauty, and the turns you haven’t yet taken. The eighteenth-century farm you’ve never seen. The historic blacksmith shop you never noticed. The “ancient burial ground” half-hidden behind a brilliant maple tree.  I lose miles wondering who might be buried in this “ancient burial ground.”

The daily chore of Kindergarten carpool is a thirty-five-miles-per-hour roller coaster. Gypsy Lane carves a path through the forest. Schoolhouse Road curves along the edge of a steep hill. I can see sheep and a fast-running creek down below.

Old stone barns and shabby farmhouses and that one crazy place with the alpacas. Every single day I forget where I’m headed.

Every drive, every errand, feels like a Sunday afternoon drive in God’s country.

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On the hard days, and in the hard places, I sometimes resist gratitude. To “give thanks in all circumstances,” can feel like shutting my eyes. Like pretending.

But giving thanks has nothing to do with renaming a prison a spacious place. It is only the grateful acknowledgement that God never leaves us behind. He always comes back for the lost sheep. He always makes a way.

These days, I am looking back. I am remembering and giving thanks.

Thank you, Lord, for the hard, straight roads that led me here. Thank you for the wilderness.

Thank you, Lord, for the Promised Land. This spacious place where every road leads somewhere new.

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