Clankclank. Clankclank.
Another rail-switch. Another mile.
My reflection is only interrupted by the passing lights of
farmhouses and streetlamps or the occasional car, and for a brief moment the
flickering and twinkling remind me of all my passing and all my leaving, and
all the wandering I’ve still to do. This isn’t a sleeper car, but still we
sleep; curled up, stretched out, feet hanging off, neck crooked,
anythingyoucantosleep. Tattoos and piercings, mismatched clothing and funky haircuts bear witness to a new generation of missionaries. New feet
on an ancient Way. Worn-out rainbows, chacos, and toms carry the dust of
nations and the old marks of forgiven sins along this narrow path, weathered
soles weathering the storms, progressing like pilgrims returning home. Home…that’s
a different thought. Home has been the road. Home has been the pack on my back
and the seat number on my ticket. Home is everywhere and home is nowhere. Home
is you and home is me. Home is faith.
Clank…clank.
