By Jan Henrikson
Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, uttered or unexpressed.
~James Montgomery
"Hey! You!" I half-yelled at a man in the parking lot near Yellowstone's Old Faithful Lodge. Charmed by a bison rolling on the ground in the distance, he completely missed the one walking past his left shoulder.
When the man turned to look, my skin prickled. "Pay attention," my inner voice said. "Surprising things are afoot for you too."
Somehow I knew I was being put on notice.
Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, uttered or unexpressed.
~James Montgomery
"Hey! You!" I half-yelled at a man in the parking lot near Yellowstone's Old Faithful Lodge. Charmed by a bison rolling on the ground in the distance, he completely missed the one walking past his left shoulder.
When the man turned to look, my skin prickled. "Pay attention," my inner voice said. "Surprising things are afoot for you too."
Somehow I knew I was being put on notice.
We'd ridden roughly 370 miles a day on a Harley motorcycle, from Tucson to Yellowstone. The first few hours, because of a minor misunderstanding with a favorite publisher, I prayed for reassurance about the direction of my career as an editor and writing coach. Soon, I surrendered to the rhythm of the ride, the cleansing wind, and the creativity roaring within me in this beauty. How wondrous that Bruce and I could sit, blissfully connected, our helmets just inches apart for hours.
We ventured from the parking lot to the benches by Old Faithful, due to spout any minute. "Mind if we sit here?" Bruce asked a ponytailed man.
"Go ahead, I don't bite."
Bruce loved meeting people on the road, which was a Godsend because I had no desire to talk, preferring to bask in the moment. I didn't want to be rude, so every once in a while, as Bruce and Mr. Ponytail chatted, I nodded in their direction, catching bits and pieces.
He and his wife were traveling with her mom and dad in their RV. He dedicated his life to helping gang members recover from substance abuse and violence. In fact, he ran a nonprofit called L.O.V.E. Let Our Violence End. He traveled around the country training police officers, judges, and health care professionals on how to interact with gang members. He was traveling now to de-stress and revive.
"Get his card," I heard in my head.
"What? No!" I protested, staring where I willed Old Faithful to rise. Normally I wanted to get people's cards. My favorite thing in the world was to write about inspiring people. What if I couldn't find a market for his story? Or I got too busy with other assignments? I didn't want to get his hopes up.
Mr. Ponytail kept talking, easy and soft. My senses wouldn't stop vibrating. His L.O.V.E. programs successfully helped gang members choose peace, again and again. I recalled how one of my best friends was a facilitator in Nonviolent and Compassionate Communication. We'd collaborated on a book about it.
When the geyser erupted, I barely saw it, so distracted was I by the voice in my head. "Get his card, get his card, get his card. This is why you're here."
I felt a quickening inside me. How melodramatic, I laughed at myself. The second the geyser died down, I heard myself gush, "I'm a writer. Can I have your card?"
Mr. Ponytail looked dumbstruck. He slapped the bench with one hand. Tears filled his eyes. His face reddened. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he said. "I've been praying for the last two weeks to meet a writer." He clenched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and shook his head.
My neck flushed.
"That's what she does!" said Bruce, astonished.
"Everybody's been telling me I should write a book," said Mr. Ponytail. "I just started taping my stories, but I've felt so lost. I'll fly wherever you are for a week to tell you my story," he said. "Whatever it takes."
Bruce described how I nurtured books into completion. I had no idea he'd been paying such attention.
I almost chuckled. As Bruce and I were thundering on a Harley from Tucson to Mr. Ponytail, God was orchestrating the answer to my prayer... and His.
We ventured from the parking lot to the benches by Old Faithful, due to spout any minute. "Mind if we sit here?" Bruce asked a ponytailed man.
"Go ahead, I don't bite."
Bruce loved meeting people on the road, which was a Godsend because I had no desire to talk, preferring to bask in the moment. I didn't want to be rude, so every once in a while, as Bruce and Mr. Ponytail chatted, I nodded in their direction, catching bits and pieces.
He and his wife were traveling with her mom and dad in their RV. He dedicated his life to helping gang members recover from substance abuse and violence. In fact, he ran a nonprofit called L.O.V.E. Let Our Violence End. He traveled around the country training police officers, judges, and health care professionals on how to interact with gang members. He was traveling now to de-stress and revive.
"Get his card," I heard in my head.
"What? No!" I protested, staring where I willed Old Faithful to rise. Normally I wanted to get people's cards. My favorite thing in the world was to write about inspiring people. What if I couldn't find a market for his story? Or I got too busy with other assignments? I didn't want to get his hopes up.
Mr. Ponytail kept talking, easy and soft. My senses wouldn't stop vibrating. His L.O.V.E. programs successfully helped gang members choose peace, again and again. I recalled how one of my best friends was a facilitator in Nonviolent and Compassionate Communication. We'd collaborated on a book about it.
When the geyser erupted, I barely saw it, so distracted was I by the voice in my head. "Get his card, get his card, get his card. This is why you're here."
I felt a quickening inside me. How melodramatic, I laughed at myself. The second the geyser died down, I heard myself gush, "I'm a writer. Can I have your card?"
Mr. Ponytail looked dumbstruck. He slapped the bench with one hand. Tears filled his eyes. His face reddened. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he said. "I've been praying for the last two weeks to meet a writer." He clenched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and shook his head.
My neck flushed.
"That's what she does!" said Bruce, astonished.
"Everybody's been telling me I should write a book," said Mr. Ponytail. "I just started taping my stories, but I've felt so lost. I'll fly wherever you are for a week to tell you my story," he said. "Whatever it takes."
Bruce described how I nurtured books into completion. I had no idea he'd been paying such attention.
I almost chuckled. As Bruce and I were thundering on a Harley from Tucson to Mr. Ponytail, God was orchestrating the answer to my prayer... and His.
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