I remember driving to work about five years ago and racing the train that sped alongside me. It was 5:30am and I was on the opening shift in the small coffee shop for the morning regulars. I used to race the train every day, always beating it, but still in a mental frenzy to make it to town before it did. I knew the end of the story, or at least expected with some degree of accuracy, but still the adrenalin rush of racing a train to the same place gave me the extra energy I needed to start my day.

I found, last night, that I operate my life in much the same way. Only it's my life, not my car, and it's my relationships, not a train.

We sat on a cement ledge, inches from the dark Tennessee River, and under a bridge which echoed even our thoughts. We sat, we four, and found that conversation came easily and without pretense. We're all the same, underneath the skin we boast and loathe. We're all going in the same direction, albeit at different speeds. Only this time, it isn't a race.

But sometimes I need to be reminded of that. I hurry along, as though to pass the finish line before everyone else, not for the win but for the fact that intersecting with anyone else slows my own race. I get distracted. I get detained. I get frustrated with lack of understanding and lack of excellence.

The other night a friend and I walked a half of a mile balancing on the train tracks behind our school. Twice a train passed us, and twice we stopped, jumped off the tracks, and watched it rush past us--getting there faster than we ever would. And I began to remember what I fully remembered last night:

The destination matters, but the journey matters more.

We sat on a cement ledge, we four, we friends. And our world slowed, if only for a few hours, while we took the race of life at the same speed, enjoying the journey together.