Map less Maverick

A week ago today I was driving down the icy bathed Nebraska roads, headed to Kansas City, heading to my family’s goodbye dinner, heading to the airport, headed to South Africa. Today I am going to buy a bike so I can ride the bumped and thumped roads of Jbay, today I am sore from the sunburn I got yesterday, today I am looking forward to tomorrow because I will be here.

So what is here?

Here is beautiful

Here is overloaded with things to do, people to see

Here is unlike Nebraska

Here is slow moving and laid back

In my last blog I committed to here, to now, “Here's to now” I suppose were my exact words. And I must say dear friends, that living in my ‘now’ is quite a pleasant place to be. Some days I look down at that blatant ‘life’ map that is so imperceptible and on those rare days I question the un-marked paths that have the potential to lead me astray. But those days are rare indeed, the days that tap on my nerves and say “Um, excuse me, you should probably be worried you don’t know where you are going.”

But on an average day, on the days that usually fill my time, my mind, my calender, my heart. Those average days, and unblazed trails say with an excited tone, “Jordan, you have a fresh trail that is craving your footprints, you have an unmarked map that you get to not only step onto but that you get to conquer; Because this indiscernible life of yours is absolutely stoked to have you be the first maverick discerning its direction.”

But something God taught me the other day must be applied to the compass that this map is following I cannot look at the map and navigate it by asking, “Where am I? What should I do?” … my compass must ask “Where is God? How can I join Him?”

I traipsed toward the beach yesterday, found myself a spot to lay, and then took in all the sun’s glory it had to offer, as well as the sounds of the waves. After I napped (which was proof that Swedish skin should not entertain South African sun) I went to the rock pools with the family that lives above my abode. As I stood on the rock with freezing waters molding around my feet and ankles I was watching the surfers dance with the waves. This particular afternoon the waves looked agitated, it looked as if the waves wanted the sky to move over and the surfers to move on. Distracting my attention from the wave's emotional break down and the surfer’s attempted playtime. I began to watch an old South African man and his grandson. The old man wore khaki shorts, a sailor’s cap and the dignity of respect and hard work, while carrying a bag full of fish. While his grandson was down in the bitterly cold waters, throwing out the fishing net. The son wore jeans, with a stripped top, complimented with a strong accent and naivety of the world beyond this sea’s pond.

As I watched the young boy fish, with no success and the old man watch and instruct, I couldn't help but align it with my own life. Align this imagery with the gospels whenever it spoke of Jesus coming to men on their fishing boats, telling them to leave their nets and fathers and to follow him. Align it with Jesus teaching us how we are destined to be fishers of men. Align it with my current attempt of standing in the South African Sea trying to fish out some lesson, coming up empty handed and God standing beside me saying over and over again,

“Cast your net again, my child.”

The winter’s wind picked me up and planted me in the summer’s sun. It planted me not in the spot of my choice, but in the spot of God’s presence; not in the spot of my strengths, but in the spot of my weaknesses; not in the place of my visions, but in the place that slept in my blind spot. All the characters in my life are growing older, I assume I am too. I’m a cross between my parents and a hippie in a hut; I’m a cross between a roaming rebel and a compliant conformist. I’m a cross between the boy who stays to fish and the boy who leaves it all behind.

I’ve made a living with these words I write, my journal as my companion, wanting desperately to belong. But never desperate enough to stick around and stick in, maybe some day I’ll settle down, maybe someday I’ll actually catch a bag-worth of fish, maybe someday I’ll have a trail marked on my map, maybe someday my map will be predictable and readable. Or maybe … not.

Maybe I’ll always be the maverick cowgirl, stuck on a beach with sun too strong, stuck on a road with no end in sight. Guess I could have made it easier on myself….

Nah… the man and the sea serenade me too strongly to succumb.