Of Roundabouts and Narrow Gates

In the days before GPS, I spent a college spring break in a small town in England named Ross-on-Wye.

One free afternoon, a host family offered to drive me and a couple friends to a beautiful spot in nearby Wales to visit the ruins of Tintern Abbey. Mrs. Gooch got a little turned around on that drive and asked a fellow on the side of the road for directions. I’ll never forget what he said:

“You need to repent at the next roundabout. And it will be about 3 miles back that way on the right,” he gestured behind us.

Repent at the roundabout.

I had never heard that word used in anything but a religious context. And then it was often harsh. There was nothing harsh about this man’s directions. He was being immensely helpful. Repent just means turn around and go the other way. Our current road was not going to get us where we were wanting to go. There’s no shame associated with repenting. Humility enough to follow the advice is required. But no shame. We simply needed to turn around.

Now, I didn’t grow up driving roundabouts. There was one big one in my college town of Waco, and it scared me to death. Traffic entering from multiple points. No clear lanes. No stopping. Cars moving toward the center if they were aiming for the far side of the Circle. Cars on the edge as they neared their exit. I was always pretty sure I was gonna die in this fast-moving automobile version of a square dance.

This unusual season of Covid-19 and other national and cultural craziness has felt like a long turn on a roundabout. What hasn’t been uprooted and thrown into the spin cycle of 2020? Everything is swirling. Everything is a question mark.

I can joke about it. But the truth is, my country is spinning. Some people I know are spinning.

At some point we will exit the roundabout and choose a road. And that choice will make all the difference in our destination. In England, we needed to take the road of repentance—the one that would take us in the other direction.

There was another day in England that I went for a solitary walk down the road from the church.

A small, wooden sign pointing to the right read, “Public Footpath.” I had learned from my hosts that these marked trails that cut through and around fields and such, to allow passage for travelers without trespassing. Anyone was welcome to follow the signs and use the path.

But we’re talking foot-path. Wide enough only for one to walk.

Adventuresome spirit out in front, I ventured off the road in the direction of the sign. The roadside was a bit woodsy here and overgrown, and I soon came to a wooden fence in front of me.

The Public Footpath sign clearly pointed across the gated stretch and invited me where I felt otherwise barred.

I climbed the fence gate, surveying my options on the other side. There was no denying the Footpath invitation, but this part seemed a bit inhospitable. Sticker bushes grew all around the base of the gate. How far could I jump?

With all the grace of a giraffe on some playground equipment, I endeavored to push off from the far side and clear the thorn hazards below.

Not far enough.

Thanks to a recent rain, slick mud greeted my incoming feet, sending me backwards and leaving me sitting in the stickers.

I stood up and started walking, picking the thorns out of my hands and hoping nobody was around to witness that marvelous display of flying prowess. Then I glanced up.

And the view took my breath away.

Lush, rolling hills of the English countryside in spring spanned for acres and acres in every direction. Majestic oaks in one’s, two’s and three’s stood proudly about, overseeing the landscape. And a light fog draped over the scene—not enough to obscure my view. Just enough to remind me that the Presence of God Himself settled here.

What a narrow and difficult gate for such an expansive view. I stood in awe, etching photographs into my mind and soaking in the scene as long as time allowed.

The Bible says, “Enter by the narrow gate… for the gate is small and the way is narrow that leads to life” (Matthew 7:13-14).

You’ll have to repent at the roundabout first. And maybe that opportunity is the gift of the “roundabout” moments of life. This season in particular. For us individually. For our nation. All are welcome on this path. But it’s just wide enough for one at a time; you’ll have to choose it for yourself. And it may feel like sticker bushes to get here.

But there is life waiting for you on this path. The right destination at the end. And the settled Presence of the One your soul is longing for.

Start by repenting at the roundabout, and come follow.