Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.

It was just a bit of whimsy, a slogan to print on a magnet shaped like an old steam engine.  My dad slapped it on the old Frigidaire over fifty years ago.  It still makes me laugh.

Sort of.

Nowadays, it’s more likely to make me think of the other phrase we use commonly, the origin of which is also most likely in the dim history of the railroads.

I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Except, I’m not.  Seeing the light yet.

It’s been a dark season.  Sadness piled upon dread; covered up in anticipation of worse to come.

I’m not the only one.

Our old friends sat around the table the other night and one of the ladies said the words.

“There are a lot of people dying, aren’t there?”

Nobody really answered her, but I heard a collective hmmm and the table went silent.  Each of us, lost in our thoughts, was seeing the faces of absent friends and hearing the voices of people we loved, voices we’ll never hear again this side of heaven.

It’s why I’ve not shared many of my current writings with my friends and social media followers for the last several months.  I’ve been seeing some of those faces and hearing many of those voices nearly constantly for a while.  And, when one is in dark places, it doesn’t seem the kindest thing to usher others into the darkness.

I’m going to chance it, though.  That moment with my old friends made me realize that perhaps we need to talk about it.  For a little while, anyway.

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now.  About that tunnel.

I’ll admit it; what got me thinking about tunnels was actually a bright spot in a little trip I took with the Lovely Lady recently.  We stopped by to visit one of our favorite bridges a few hours away from where we live.

She’s the one who saw it.  I was driving, so I would have never seen the conjunction of lovely points of light if it hadn’t been for her keen eye.

“That’s amazing!  You have to see it!”

She is not given to flights of fancy, this companion.  She’s the one who helps me see reality when I drift away from it (as I frequently do).  I’d hold onto all the balloons and float into the sky to oblivion, but she knows to use her trusty BB gun to bring me back down before I hurt myself.  I need her.

But on this day, she could hardly wait for the truck to get parked so she could hurry me up the hill and point out the scene.  It’s in the photo on this page.

At precisely this spot, one may view the most beautiful highway bridge in the state, under which runs the Missouri Northern Arkansas Railroad, leading over a lovely trestle (above a rushing river), and straight through a thousand-foot tunnel cut through the nearby hillside.  That’s the tunnel, there through the railroad bridge, that tiny arched blob of shadow before brilliant light.

The photo doesn’t do the view credit.  And yet, we were giddy as we stood there, with the richness of sunlight playing with shade and the drawing together of the individual points of beauty into one single vista.

The moment has passed.

I have spent hours with the photo open on my computer monitor since then.  And, as has happened so often over the last few months, the shadows eventually return, even to this place of light and beauty.

I know there is sunshine on the other side of that tunnel.  I see it clearly.  Still, that blob of shadow fills my vision.

I bet it’s dark in there—there in that tunnel.  Even with the end in view, it’s dark and gloomy.

It’s dark in here, too—here in this tunnel I’m making my way through.  But, I sense I’m not alone in here.

Even though it can seem so lonely, many of us have brought our tattered pieces of cardboard in and have built little makeshift shelters for ourselves under which we huddle, shivering and shaking, as the trains pass noisily by.

I won’t dwell on the darkness, on the loneliness, on the fear that this passage will be beyond our strength.  If you’ve been in here, you already know.  Probably better than I.

I find myself asking if the tunnel ever ends—if the darkness ever gives way to sunshine again.

I’m not the brightest crayon in the box; I readily admit it.  But, like Mr. Tolkien’s innkeeper, Butterbur, I think I can see through a brick wall in time.  And I think I may be seeing a glimmer of that light, finally.

I’m asking the wrong questions.

The apostle, my namesake, suggested in his day that his troubles were temporary and light.  More than once, he wrote the words. His point was that we’re aimed for better things, things that will make the events filling our sight today seem minor in comparison.

It doesn’t trivialize our life experiences.  The pain, the fear, and the losses can’t be dismissed with the snap of our fingers.  We still must endure them; still must make our way forward through the darkness.  But, something is waiting at the end, something that will make all the dreadful things we’ve struggled through fade in importance.

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

I stood, here in this dark tunnel, the other day, and I think I finally saw through that brick wall.  Momentarily, at least.  New questions came to my mind.

Who put this tunnel here?  And why?

Perhaps, I’m being simplistic.  I don’t think I am.

Tunnels are not made to create hardship, but to alleviate it.  They are placed to facilitate progress to the goal, in locations where the conveyance could never—never!—make any headway without them.

And, in my head—and heart—the words resound.  Words I’ve mentioned here before.

“For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'”  (Jeremiah 29:11, NLT)

They are words to encourage us.  In the midst of hurting and paralyzing fear, they remind us that there is more.

More.

I’m reminded that the Word is light for our pathway and our feet.  I trust Him.  I’ll walk in that light.

Traveling to the Light at the end of the tunnel.  Step by step, walking in the light He gives for today.

I’ve camped out here long enough.  You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead.  That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

 

‘Maybe,’ said Elrond, ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.’
(from Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

But forget all that—
    it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.
 For I am about to do something new.
    See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
    I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:18-19, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.