Nobody at arrivals asks about layovers

I just woke up one day and stopped. Somebody tells it at a barbecue in two sentences, and everyone nods. Your version won't fit in two sentences. It has restarts. A rough stretch you'd rather skip. A middle that ran mostly on stubbornness. So you rank yourself second and tell no one.

Nobody at an arrivals gate asks how many layovers you had. They're scanning the crowd for your face. The direct flight isn't a better arrival. It's a shorter story. Where you're standing now is the only fact that counts.

And the long way paid you in something the short way can't. You know which weeks run thin before they arrive. You know how your own excuses sound at midnight. The cigarette booked every restart as a failure. They were stops on the route, and you learned every one.

God doesn't grade an arrival by its approach. He was there for the rough stretch, holding what you couldn't. Tell Him so. Thank You for walking the long way with me. Then tell one person the real version, restarts and all. I came the long way, and I know every mile of it.