Telegram Road — Episode 1
The Call and the Road
The tires hummed as the old S‑10 settled into the right lane, the last curve of the on‑ramp slipping behind them like a final goodbye. For the first time all morning, the restlessness of packing, planning, and second‑guessing eased its grip. The dogs had finally curled into their awkward nest behind the seats, and the early light spilled across the dashboard in soft gold.
Devon exhaled slowly, as if the highway itself had given him permission to breathe.
“You know,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the long ribbon of road ahead, “it still amazes me that we’re doing this. That we’re on the road to Eugene. That someone looked at the mess of our lives — the addiction, the homelessness, the brokenness — and still believed we were worth investing in. It feels like… like God Himself put this key in our hands and said, ‘Go. Build something good.’”
He let the hum of the tires fill the space between them.
“When I was a kid,” he continued, “my mom and I used to take drives through New England. Long stretches of road just like this. We’d talk about everything — God, life, mistakes, hopes. I didn’t realize back then that He was planting something in me. Something that would take decades to grow.”
The sun warmed the windshield, the engine, and something deep in him that had been cold for years.
“You know that verse from Jeremiah — the one Pastor Reed always quoted to us? ‘For I know the plans I have for you… plans to prosper you and not to harm you.’ I never believed that applied to people like me. Not after the drugs, the violence, the nights I don’t even like to remember. I thought I’d disqualified myself.”
The road opened wider, fields glowing in the morning light.
Devon rested his hands on the wheel for a moment; eyes fixed on the stretch of highway unfolding before them. “I woke up this morning thinking about something I haven’t let myself consider in years. The same God who hung the stars — every galaxy, every moon, every burning sun — is the God who shaped us. The Psalmist said it better than I ever could: ‘When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers… what is man that You are mindful of him?’”
He exhaled, almost in disbelief. “That’s what hit me. If God cares for the heavens — the vastness, the beauty, the order — with that kind of intention, then how much more does He care for the people He formed with His own hands. He doesn’t abandon His work. Not the stars. Not the sky. Not us.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And following Him… it isn’t some psychedelic escape, some cheap trip promising rainbows and unicorns. It’s an investment in a holy Creator who finishes what He starts. A God who refuses to toss aside what He’s shaping, even when the shaping hurts. Even when we fight Him. Even when we think we’ve ruined the blueprint.”
He glanced at Sofia, eyes warm with a conviction that felt newly forged. “That’s why this road matters. This calling. This lodge waiting for us in Eugene. It isn’t random. It’s the next chapter in a story He began long before we knew how to read it.”
“But here we are,” he said, voice thick with wonder. “God didn’t abandon His handiwork. He didn’t toss me aside like some bad trip or broken promise. He kept shaping me, even when I was too lost to notice. All those years I thought were wasted — they were the forge. The tempering. The sharpening of the blade.”
He tightened his grip on the wheel, not out of fear, but conviction.
“And now He’s trusting us — us — with the work waiting at Samaritan Lodge. A place where people like we used to be can find rest, recovery, and a reason to hope again. Seymore Crowley didn’t just leave us a house. He left us a mission. A chance to give back what was given to us.”
He glanced at Sofia, a small smile forming.
“I used to think the delays meant something was wrong. Like maybe God had forgotten me, or maybe I’d messed up too many times. But now… now I see it differently. Some projects just take longer. Not because God is slow, but because we weren’t ready.”
The truck rolled on, steady and sure, as if the road itself agreed.
“So today,” he said, voice low but certain, “I’m putting on the armor of God for real. Not as a metaphor. Not as a pep talk. But because I finally understand the weight of what we’re stepping into. We’re not just moving across the country. We’re stepping into a calling. A mission. And I think… I think this is exactly the right time. Not earlier. Not later. Now.”
He looked ahead, the horizon glowing with promise.
“This… this is Day One.”
When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained; What is man, that Thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that Thou visitest him?
Psalm 8:3–4 (KJV)
Trust After Trauma
Sofia watched the road ahead as Devon spoke, the morning light softening the edges of everything — the fields, the sky, even the memories she usually kept locked away. When he finished, she let a few breaths pass before she spoke, her voice quiet but sure.
“You know… I’ve been thinking about where we started,” she said. “Back when we first met at the shelter. I remember fearing you, if I’m honest. You were always muttering to yourself, pacing like you were planning something. I didn’t know if you were dangerous or just broken. And I didn’t have room in my life for either one.”
She laughed softly, embarrassed but honest.
“But then I saw you in the chapel that night. I’ll never forget it. You walked in like you were carrying the whole world on your back, and when the chaplain started talking about rebuilding a life the way you rebuild a house — reminding us of Jesus’ words about the man who built on sand instead of rock — something in you broke open. It was like you suddenly realized how shaky the ground had been under your feet all those years. You didn’t cry from fear or anger. You cried from recognition… from surrender.”
She looked out the window, the fields blurring gently as the truck rolled on.
“That was the first time I thought maybe God wasn’t done with you. And if He wasn’t done with you… maybe He wasn’t done with me either.”
Her hands folded in her lap, fingers tightening as old memories surfaced.
“I spent so many years thinking God was punishing me. Every bruise, every betrayal, every night I slept on a cot in that shelter — I thought it was His way of saying I’d made my bed and now I had to lie in it. I closed my heart to Him because I thought He’d closed His heart to me first.”
She paused, swallowing hard.
“But then you and I started going to those services together. Not as a couple, not as anything romantic — just two broken people trying to believe that God still had a plan. And little by little, He started stitching something back together in me. Something I didn’t think could be repaired.”
The highway straightened, stretching toward the horizon like a promise.
“And now here we are,” she said softly. “On a road I never imagined I’d be on. Heading to a place I never thought I’d be trusted with. Samaritan Lodge… I still can’t believe someone looked at us — two people who lost everything — and said, ‘Yes, these are the ones.’”
She turned toward Devon, her expression full of quiet awe.
“You said God didn’t abandon His handiwork. I think… I think I’m finally starting to believe that. Because when there was no one left to trust — not men, not family, not even me — He was still there. Waiting. Patient. Steady.”
Her voice trembled, but not from fear.
“So, if this is Day One… then I’m ready. Not because I’m strong. Not because I’m healed. But because God didn’t give up on me. And I don’t want to give up on what He’s asking us to do.”
She looked back at the road, the sunrise brightening ahead of them.
“Let’s go build something good.”
And every one that heareth these sayings of Mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand: And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.
Matthew 7:26–27 (KJV)
Day One Begins
The truck rolled on in a steady hum, the kind of rhythm that settles into the bones and quiets the mind. Devon’s words lingered between them like the last notes of a hymn, and Sofia’s reply softened the air inside the cab, turning it warm, almost sacred.
Outside, the fields widened. The fog lifted. The sun climbed a little higher, brushing the tops of the hills with gold. It felt less like morning and more like a curtain rising.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The silence wasn’t empty — it was full. Full of everything they’d survived. Full of everything they were driving toward. Full of the strange, steady peace that comes when two people finally stop running from God and start walking — or in this case, driving — toward what He’s been preparing all along.
The road stretched ahead, narrow and bright, disappearing into the rising light. Behind them lay the years of chaos, addiction, fear, and wandering. Ahead waited the work — the quiet, holy work — of building a place where the lost could rest and the broken could heal.
Sofia reached toward the dashboard, fingers brushing the stack of old cassette tapes. She sifted through them with a small smile.
“Tell me you still have that Third Day tape,” she said. “The one with ‘Come Together’ on it.”
Devon chuckled under his breath. “Bottom of the stack. Right where it’s been since ’98.”
She held the tape up triumphantly. “Figures. After all these years, we finally came together for something good. Something we can be proud of. God’s got a sense of humor.”
Devon nodded, eyes on the horizon. “He really does.”
The S‑10 rumbled forward, faithful and unhurried, carrying them west.
And just like that, the journey began.
EPISODE 1 — FINAL CONCLUDING REFLECTION
“The Symphony on the Narrow Road”
As the S‑10 carried them west and the morning opened into light, Devon and Sofia didn’t yet understand what was happening inside them. They thought they were simply beginning a road trip — a new chapter, a new assignment, a new chance at life. But something deeper was unfolding.
For years, each of them had lived like a single instrument, trying to make sense of their lives in isolation. Their prayers were scattered. Their faith was fragile. Their hope flickered like a lone candle in a drafty room. They believed in God, but they could not yet hear the fullness of His movement.
But on this road — this narrow road — something shifted.
They began to hear the other instruments.
The steady rhythm of God’s faithfulness.
The low hum of grace beneath their failures.
The rising swell of redemption.
The quiet harmony of two lives being tuned to the same purpose.
It was as if the Spirit Himself — the consuming fire Scripture speaks of — had breathed across the strings of their hearts and ignited something that had long been dormant. Not destruction, but refining. Not chaos, but unity. Not noise, but music.
They were no longer playing alone.
They were being grafted into something larger —
like branches joining the Vine,
like members joining the Body,
like instruments joining the symphony.
The Psalmist once asked,
“What is man, that Thou art mindful of him?”
And on that first day of their journey, Devon and Sofia discovered the answer:
They were not forgotten.
They were not abandoned.
They were not disqualified.
They were part of the composition.
And as the truck rolled toward Samaritan Lodge — toward calling, toward purpose, toward the work God had prepared — they realized something profound:
They were finally hearing the whole symphony.
They were finally following the Conductor.
And the music had only just begun.
Telegram Road — Episode 2
The Ones We Loved, The Ones Who Left Us Hungry
The Third Day tape had been playing for so long that neither of them noticed the hours passing. The S‑10 hummed down the highway, the old cassette deck dutifully flipping the tape back and forth on auto‑reverse. It wasn’t until the music cut out with a soft, tired snap that both of them jolted awake from their quiet trance.
Devon winced. “Ah, no… tell me that wasn’t the tape.”
Sofia held the cassette up like a wounded bird. The ribbon had split clean through, frayed from heat and age.
“Three hours,” she said. “We listened to this thing for three hours.”
“And it still wasn’t enough,” Devon replied.
They both laughed, but the laughter carried a strange heaviness — the kind that comes when something small breaks and reveals something larger underneath. The tape wasn’t just music. It was memory. It was survival. It was the soundtrack of two people who had lived long enough to know what loss sounds like.
Devon pulled into a rest stop, the engine ticking as it cooled. They sat for a moment, staring at the broken cassette on the dashboard like it was a fallen comrade.
Sofia sighed. “Well… I guess we take a break.”
Inside the McDonald’s, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. They sat across from each other with trays of burgers and fries, the sunset turning the windows gold. The tape lay between them on the table, a relic of a life they were finally leaving behind.
“It’s silly,” Sofia said, poking at her fries. “But losing that tape… it feels like losing a piece of who we were.”
Devon nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s a sign. We’re not meant to keep replaying the old songs.”
He paused, then added gently, “Remember what Jesus said — ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt… but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven.’ The tape wasn’t the treasure, Sofia. The message was. And my old truck can’t kill that.”
She looked up at him, eyes softening.
“Maybe we’re meant to write new ones.”
Devon smiled. “Yeah. Together.”
Sofia leaned back, thinking. “You know… when I was digging through your tapes earlier, I asked if you still had the one with ‘Come Together’ on it. Funny thing is… we actually did.”
Devon raised an eyebrow.
“We came together for this trip,” she said. “For the Lodge. For the work. And now… after everything we’ve survived… we’re coming together as two people who finally know what we don’t want anymore.”
Devon chuckled. “Trust after trauma.”
“Exactly.”
Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven…
Matthew 6:19–20 (KJV)
The Moment We Chose the Narrow Road
The conversation drifted the way it always did when the road loosened their tongues — slowly at first, then with the gravity of two people who had carried too much for too long.
Sofia went quiet for a moment, then said, “You ever love someone who only showed up for the sunrise version of you?”
Devon looked at her. “What do you mean?”
She sighed. “He was wonderful in the mornings. Sweet. Attentive. Full of plans and promises. But by evening… it was like someone unplugged him. No warmth. No presence. Just… gone.”
She hesitated, then added, “He wore his moods like uniforms. Literally. White when he was bubbly and overflowing with devotion. Black when he was cold, withdrawn, unreachable. After a while, I learned to brace myself when he walked into the room wearing black. Like an abused dog flinching at a raised hand. I wasn’t afraid of him hurting me physically — I was afraid of the emotional winter that always followed.”
Devon nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know that type.”
Sofia continued, “His home was spotless. Perfect. But there wasn’t a single photograph on the walls. Not one. It felt like living inside a catalog — beautiful, but no soul. He’d say things like, ‘You can tell me anything,’ but the moment I actually did, he’d get defensive. Or quiet. Or he’d change the subject. It was like my feelings were an inconvenience he didn’t budget for.”
Devon exhaled. “I’ve been there.”
He leaned back in the booth, staring at the broken cassette between them. “I once cared for someone who would wake up overflowing with affection — like I was the center of her world — and by evening she’d treat me like a stranger. I’d share something honest, something vulnerable, and she’d respond with… logic. Or distance. Or that tone people use when they’re trying to stay in control.”
Sofia nodded. “The tone that says, ‘Your feelings are your problem.’”
“Exactly.” Devon rubbed his thumb along the edge of the cassette. “I’d tell her something from the heart, and she’d say things like, ‘Interesting imagination.’ Like my soul was a creative writing assignment.”
Sofia winced. “Ouch.”
“She couldn’t be accountable,” Devon said softly. “Not for a single moment of impact. Only for the intent she insisted I should accept.”
They sat with that for a moment — the weight of old wounds, the strange relief of naming them aloud.
Devon finally broke the silence, quoting scripture under his breath:
Sofia nodded, then added gently, “My dad used to say, ‘A dead tree bears no fruit.’”
Devon looked up at her, and something in his chest loosened.
That line — simple, earthy, true — landed deeper than any proverb he’d heard in years.
Sofia reached across the table, tapping the broken cassette.
“You know… maybe this isn’t the end of a song. Maybe it’s the beginning of a new one.”
Devon tilted his head. “What kind of song?”
“A work song,” she said. “A song about service. Stewardship. Charity. A song about two people who finally stopped trying to fix the hollow ones… and started building something real.”
Devon smiled — a slow, grateful smile.
“Come Together… becomes Work Together.”
“For the Lodge,” she said.
“For the people who need us.”
“For the life we’re actually meant to live.”
They finished their meal.
They walked back to the truck.
The broken tape sat on the dashboard like a relic of a life they had outgrown.
Devon picked it up.
“We’ll fix it,” he said. “Or we won’t. Either way… we’re not done.”
Sofia nodded.
“Not even close.”
The S‑10 rumbled back onto Telegram Road, carrying two survivors who finally understood that the past shaped them — but it would not define the work they were about to do.
They had come together.
Now they would work together.
And the new song was just beginning.
“We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we mourned for you, and you did not weep.”
Luke 7:32 (KJV)
EPISODE 2 — FINAL CONCLUDING REFLECTION
New Songs for New Roads
Some things break because they were weak.
Some things break because they were neglected.
But some things break because they were loved so long and so faithfully that they simply reached the end of their strength.
The tape snapping in Devon’s truck wasn’t a tragedy.
It was a reminder.
You cannot keep replaying the old songs forever.
There comes a moment when God invites you to stop rehearsing the past and start composing the future. A moment when the familiar soundtrack of heartbreak, disappointment, and emotional inconsistency finally gives way to something new — something rooted, accountable, present, and real.
New things rarely arrive with fanfare.
Sometimes they arrive in a rest stop McDonald’s, over cold fries and a broken cassette.
Sometimes they arrive in the quiet honesty between two people who have survived enough to know what matters.
And sometimes they arrive in you —
in the moment you stop trying to resurrect dead trees
and start planting seeds in good soil.
May you have the courage to stop replaying the old songs.
May you have the wisdom to recognize the hollow places for what they are.
And may you have the faith to step into the new work God is calling you to —
a work of service, stewardship, charity, and love that bears real fruit.
The road ahead is long.
But the new song has already begun.