Lines in the Snow

One night I dreamed I was driving through my life—headlights fading, engine whining, roads filled with joy and strife. In this dream, scenes from my wildest nights played out before me: shots, strangers, neon, gluttony’s spree; lust in the hallway, sloth on the floor, pride in the punchline I’d told before. In each memory, I saw two sets of tracks—mine weaving drunk, His steady on the tarmac. But during the worst of nights, when the world spun slow, there was only one set—cutting through the snow, leaving behind lines in the snow. Troubled, I turned to the Lord and slurred, “Jesus, where were You when things got blurred? When the lights were dancing, the wheel spun free, and I swore the road was laughing at me?” The Lord smiled softly, eyes tired but kind: “My child, you were out of your holy mind. When the bar closed, and your wallet was gone, and your dealer kept texting, ‘you on?’, it was then that I drove you home.” I laughed through tears, lit by the dash’s glow, thinking, Man, He can really handle snow. Tires hissed white lines that shimmered bright—He kept it straight while I chased the night. “Lord,” I whispered, “why me? Why this curse?” He said, “You call it a curse—I call it your verse. For some, I give silence, for some I give pain, for you I gave time-travel wisdom, again and again. It’s messy redemption, but it’s your own—and I’ll keep driving you home.” I woke to sunlight slicing through blinds, mouth like ash, heart misaligned. A note on the counter, my keys in a bowl—‘Sleep it off.’ ♥ JC, in Sharpie bold. Coffee and mercy both burned slow, but I felt Him there—letting me know. Maybe this sickness was grace in disguise, He hides in the dark where the lost baptize. I laughed, I wept, the room softly spun, same old story, new rising sun. And somewhere, outside, an engine did groan—JC in my driveway, still driving me home.