The commute to my college is only thirty-five minutes, unless, of course, you’re going for class at 8:00 in the morning. Then the drive turns out to be more like an hour and a bit.
I’m convinced traffic could be used as a form of torture. There’s just something about knowing that you’re sandwiched between an endless amount of cars — you’re really not going anywhere. I think I mostly dislike the feeling of being stuck.
So this morning it was just me and the pink sky and twenty-seven thousand red brake lights. I have sixty precious minutes in my car before I arrive on campus, and instead of getting frustrated by the feeling of my foot constantly hitting the brakes, today I started thinking, “What could happen if I didn’t waste this time?”
What can you do in an hour?
Easy. There’s a lot I can accomplish. Give me sixty minutes and I can watch a show on Netflix, or finish a piece of art on canvas, or spin with my nephew in the kitchen and listen to his laugh. I could get a decent way through a book, or have coffee with a friend, or bake a load of nachos.
But this morning I took my hour and I had church.
I am a firm believer in church — the Sunday kind — of gathering with people and drinking coffee and telling one another about your week, and in the quiet, tender moments of worship, while holding your hands out and giving your whole self away.
But this morning, I had church too.