Grace takes the detour on I-40 just out of Kingman. I wanted the Straight shot. Efficient. The kind of drive that gets you somewhere without asking much of you along the way. But I missed the ramp. No signal, no GPS worth trusting, just heat waves and a frontage road that had not seen a map update since the Eisenhower administration. That is when I saw him.

A kid, sitting on the hood of a busted car about a quarter mile up, flipping a coin like he was in quiet conversation with the universe. I almost kept driving. But something in the way he sat there, unhurried, patient, not flagging anyone down made me lift my foot off the gas.

Grace Takes the Detour. Sometimes It Starts With a Coin.

I pulled over and rolled down the window. Asked if he was waiting on a ride. He shook his head without looking up, still turning that scratched-up coin end over end. “Waiting on the right one,” he said.

That landed differently than I expected. He did not mean a car. He meant a moment. A turning point. Something with headlights that was actually headed somewhere worth going. He’d left a bad place, he told me. Did not know exactly where he was headed, only that staying behind was no longer an option. “I don’t need a map,” he said. “I just need a reason.”

Grace Takes the Detour. Sometimes It Rides Quiet in the Passenger Seat.

I didn’t preach. Didn’t counsel. Just handed him a water bottle, Unlocked the back door of the truck for his bag, and told him I was headed west. He held the coin out over his palm, flipped it once, caught it, and didn’t even look at the result. Just nodded and climbed in. “Sometimes the sign is not on the road,” he said, settling in. “It is in the person who stops.”

We drove in the kind of silence that doesn’t ask for noise. After a while he asked if I’d ever felt called somewhere I didn’t fully understand. I told him every backroad I’ve ever taken felt that way. He laughed and said his mother used to tell him that grace doesn’t always shout. “Sometimes it just scratches something into your gut with a pencil and a little hope.”

I dropped him in Needles at a classic diner across from a row of gas stations, not much else. Before he climbed out, he held out the coin. Pressed it into my hand and said, “You stopped. That makes you part of the story now.” Then he walked toward the diner without looking back.

What You Find When You Miss the Exit

I sat there for a while before I pulled back onto the famous Route 66 alignment headed for home. The coin was was surprisingly new, not very worn, smooth on both sides. A lion on one side and Psalm 31:24 “Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart.” I still have it.

The Greater Good Science Center has written about the ripple effect of small acts of connection, how a single encounter can shift a person’s trajectory in ways that are nearly impossible to measure. What I know is that I didn’t plan that stop. I wasn’t trying to do anything meaningful that afternoon. I just missed a ramp. But this is something I keep coming back to, the same thread I pulled on in When Kindness Takes the Wheel the idea that sometimes the most important moment of your day is the one you didn’t schedule.

You’re not always lost when you end up somewhere unexpected. Sometimes the detour is the point. Sometimes the route you didn’t plan is the only one that could’ve taken you where you needed to go.

✨ Roadside Reflection:

Grace takes the detour. It doesn’t always announce itself with flashing arrows or clear outcomes. Sometimes it shows up as a missed exit, a kid on the hood of a car, a coin with no wrong side. The most important turns in your life will not always come with guarantees. Trust the pause anyway. Honor the detour. And if something quiet inside you says to pull over… pull over. You may be the reason someone believes the next mile is worth taking.

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Kindness is not always reactive. I didn’t fully understand that until a pie sign in a diner case made it plain. It wasn’t a remarkable day. Just the road and a reason to stop. I pulled in the way I’ve pulled into a hundred diners along this route. Counter seat, coffee first, maybe something to go with it if the case looked worth it.

The kind of stop where you’re not expecting anything except a few quiet minutes before the miles start up again. The pie case caught my eye on the way in. There was a handwritten sign propped up against the glass. Buy one, get one.

Nothing spiritual about it. Just a bakery that made a little too much and a diner trying to move it before closing. Practical. Simple. The kind of sign most people read and then do the math on. I ordered my coffee and a slice and sat with it for a while.

Kindness Is Not Always Reactive. Sometimes the Decision Comes First.

Somewhere between the first cup and the second, something shifted. Not dramatically. Just quietly, the way most things worth paying attention to tend to arrive.

I thought about taking the second slice to go. Not for later. Not for me. Just because somewhere along the way I had started living a little more ready than I used to. Open to the idea that something good might be needed just down the road, and that I might be the one holding it.

I didn’t have a destination in mind. I didn’t have a person picked out. I just asked for the second piece boxed up with aplastic fork, paid for it, and didn’t make a thing of it. That’s the whole decision. That’s all it was.

Kindness Is Not Always Reactive. Sometimes It Shows Up on a Corner.

A few miles out, there was a man standing on a corner that doesn’t make headlines. The kind of corner where life gets a little heavier than most people want to look at for too long. A simple had drawn sign…. Hungry… He wasn’t asking for anything more. He was just standing there the way people stand when the day has worn them down past the point of pretending otherwise. I pulled over.

I didn’t have a speech. Didn’t have anything figured out. I just rolled down the window and held out the box and said something like, I picked up an extra piece of pie back there, thought you might want it. He looked at it. Then he looked at me. And then he said thank you in a way that carried more weight than the word usually does.

That was it. No long story. No moment that rearranged everything. Just a man on a corner who got a piece of pie on an ordinary afternoon, and maybe felt like somebody saw him for a few minutes. I pulled back onto the road thinking about how easy that was.

Staying Ready Before the Moment Arrives

Most of the kindness I’ve offered in my life has been reactive. Someone needed something and I happened to be close enough to help. That still matters. But there’s something different about deciding before the moment shows up. About keeping your hands a little more open before anyone asks you to.

It doesn’t take much. A second cup of coffee. An extra bottle of water on a hot day. A few dollars set aside not for anything in particular, just in case the road puts something in front of you that you didn’t plan for. This is something I’ve written about before in When Kindness Takes the Wheel and it keeps proving itself true out here.

Kindness is not always reactive. Sometimes it’s prepared. Sometimes it’s a quiet yes made in a diner before you even know where it’s going. And that posture, that small shift in how you move through a day, is what turns ordinary stops into something worth carrying home.

✨ Roadside Reflection:

Kindness is not always reactive. Sometimes it starts with a small decision made before the need is even visible. The sign in the pie case was ordinary. The corner was ordinary. The man standing there was carrying something heavy in a way most people never would have slowed down to notice. But one quiet decision, made over coffee before the moment arrived, turned a regular Tuesday into something worth remembering. You don’t have to wait for something big to move you. Just stay ready. Keep your hands open. The moment will find you.

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Some of the best church I’ve ever had didn’t happen in a church. It happened behind the wheel somewhere between Needles and Barstow. Or sitting on the edge of a motel bed with a Gideon Bible in the drawer and a neon sign blinking through the window. Or eating a stale Danish in a gas station parking lot at 6:15 in the morning, watching the sky slowly wake up over the desert.

I call them highway hymns and motel psalms, not because anyone was singing or preaching, but because God felt close in those moments. Real close. And quiet, too. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket you didn’t know you needed. We get so used to thinking worship has to look a certain way. Hands raised. Stage lights. The music just right. But out on Route 66, the worship sneaks up on you.

It shows up when the radio cuts out and all that’s left is wind and tire hum. It shows up when you’re sitting on the tailgate of your truck in the middle of nowhere and realize… you haven’t felt lonely in hours.

One morning in Winslow, I was sipping gas station coffee and watching a man sweep the sidewalk in front of an old storefront. He wasn’t doing anything particularly holy — just sweeping. But there was this rhythm to it. Like he was tending to more than dust. And in that moment, I felt it — that nudge deep in the gut: Pay attention. This is church, too.

The truth is, not everyone feels at home inside a church building. Maybe they were hurt. Maybe they didn’t fit. Maybe the front door just felt too heavy to open. But Route 66? She doesn’t check your credentials. Doesn’t ask for a statement of belief. Doesn’t care what you’re wearing or where you’ve been. The road just says, “Climb in. Let’s ride.”

Yeah, I’ve had holy moments in roadside chapels. But I’ve had just as many petting a stray dog behind an abandoned station. Or flipping through a motel Bible and finding a note scribbled on the inside cover: “You’re not alone. Keep going.” No name. No date. Just a whisper from someone who walked this road before me. That’s what this road does. It layers stories. Yours. Mine. The ones before us. All of it woven into cracked pavement, faded murals, and the far-off echo of a train you can’t quite see.

Somewhere outside Kingman, I pulled off to watch the sunset. Didn’t plan it. Just felt the pull. I climbed a little rise and stood there — no words, no agenda. And I’ll tell you: I’ve sat through a lot of sermons. But none hit me like that silence did.

I don’t know what your faith looks like. Don’t know if you pray, or if you’re angry at God, or if you let go of the whole thing years ago. But I do know this, this road has room for all of it. Doubt. Wonder. Weariness. Gratitude. All of it. You can hum an old gospel tune while crossing the Panhandle. You can scream your questions into the wind outside Amboy. You can say nothing at all and still feel heard. That’s worship, too.

So if your soul’s feeling worn out, if the faith you once had doesn’t seem to fit anymore, try a different kind of sanctuary. No pews. No steeple. Just a bench seat and a rolled-down window. Communion might be a diner milkshake. Grace might come in the form of a stranger’s nod at a gas pump. Out here, every motel room can be a prayer room. Every sunrise can be a hymn. Every mile can be a psalm.

You don’t have to go looking for God out here. Sometimes, you just realize… He’s been riding shotgun the whole way.

Healing Highway is a monthly  journal rooted in mental wellness, spiritual reflection, and lived experience along Route 66. Each episode blends real stories with warm humor, plain-spoken faith, and practical insight for everyday life.

These stories are words of encouragement found in ordinary places — diners, quiet overlooks, motel parking lots, small towns that still believe kindness is a reasonable way to live. No hype. No hurry. No performance. Just storytelling, honesty, and the reminder that healing usually begins with one small step.

Listen to Highway Hymns and Motel Psalms Podcast

Watch the Highway Hymns and Motel Psalms Youtube Video

Read more Healing Highway stories like Still More Road Ahead HERE.

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Coffee Came Back while I was sitting at a Route 66 diner not long ago, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, watching the quiet rhythm of the morning unfold. The kind of place where the plates clink softly, the coffee keeps coming, and nobody’s in too much of a hurry.

The waitress walked up and smiled in a way that told me she wasn’t just being polite. She said she had listened to the last episode of Healing Highway and really enjoyed it. Then she added that she was looking forward to the new Roadside Notes coming out on Thursday. I smiled back, surprised and grateful. You never really know who and when people are listening. Most of the time, it feels like you’re just putting something out into the world and hoping it lands somewhere it’s needed.

Coffee Came Back With A Smile

She poured a little more coffee, paused, then looked at me again and said, “You’re always buying coffee and breakfast for people. I’d like to cover yours today.”

For a second, I didn’t quite know what to say. Not because of the coffee. It wasn’t about the money. It was the moment. I’ve sat at enough counters to know how this usually works. You come in, you order, you pay, you leave. Maybe you nod at someone on the way out. Maybe you don’t. Most days move like that, quiet and unnoticed. But every once in a while, something small breaks the pattern.

Why Coffee Came Back

I’ve bought coffee for people before. Picked up a breakfast here and there. Nothing big. Nothing worth talking about. Just those small moments where you feel like maybe you can leave things a little better than you found them. I never thought much about it after. Until that morning.

There was a young man a few stools down, maybe in his twenties, listening just enough to be curious. When she mentioned she had a bag ready for the pantry at the church I volunteer with, he leaned in and asked, “Matthew 25 Lives… what’s that?” It wasn’t a challenge. It was a real question.

I laughed softly, not at him, but at the timing of it all. I looked at him and said, “That right there… that’s Matthew 7:7 in action.” He looked at me like I might have skipped a step, so I kept it simple. Sometimes you give without expecting anything back. You just do what you can, where you are, with what you have. You feed someone, help someone, notice someone who might otherwise be overlooked. Then, without planning it, something comes back around. Not always the same way and not always from the same person, but it shows up.

Sitting there, I realized something I probably should’ve known already. The small things count more than we give them credit for. Not the big gestures or the ones people talk about, but the quiet ones that happen when nobody’s keeping score. Most of life is lived in those moments. A diner counter, a warm cup of coffee, and a conversation that wasn’t planned.

Maybe that’s the point. Not to keep track of what you’ve done or to wait for it to come back, but to live in a way that leaves things a little better than you found them. And trust that somewhere down the road, in a way you didn’t expect, it might just come back around.

✨ Roadside Reflection:

Sometimes the smallest things are the ones that come back around. A cup of coffee you didn’t think twice about buying… a quiet moment where you chose kindness instead of looking the other way… those things don’t disappear. They move. You might not see where they go, and you definitely won’t control how they return, but every once in a while, life hands you a moment that reminds you it mattered. So if you’re wondering whether the small things count… they do. More than you think. Maybe more than you’ll ever know.

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I was sitting at a diner counter not long ago with both hands wrapped around a warm cup of coffee, the kind of quiet moment where the world slows down just enough for a thought to find you. A saying came to mind that I’ve carried for years. Most of us wake up believing we’ve been given one more day. One more sunrise to fix something, finish something, or say the things we meant to say yesterday. But the longer I sat there with that thought, the clearer something else became. It isn’t just one more day. It’s also one less.

One More Day Changes the Way We See Time

Understanding One More Day or One Less Day has a strange way of shifting the way we look at life. When we think only about having more time, we assume tomorrow will take care of things. Apologies get postponed. Gratitude gets delayed. Kindness becomes something we promise ourselves we’ll show later when the schedule is lighter and the moment feels more convenient.

But when the other side of that truth settles in, something changes. One less day means the clock is quietly moving whether we notice it or not. One less chance to tell someone we appreciate them. One less opportunity to mend something that’s been quietly waiting for courage. One less moment to choose patience instead of frustration.

Oddly enough, realizing that doesn’t make life feel smaller. It makes it clearer. The coffee tastes a little richer. Conversations seem worth lingering in. A smile from a stranger feels like something worth returning. When you begin to understand that every sunrise is both a gift and a subtraction, the ordinary moments start carrying more meaning than they did before.

One More Day at the Diner Counter

Sitting there that morning, I watched the quiet rhythm of the diner unfold around me. A waitress balancing plates like she’d done a thousand times before. A couple across the room sharing a conversation that looked like it had been going on for decades. The soft clink of silverware and the low hum of voices blending together like background music.

Nothing about the scene was dramatic. It was just life happening the way it usually does. Yet moments like that are where life really lives. They’re the small places where kindness is offered, forgiveness is extended, and people quietly decide what kind of human being they want to be.

Most of life isn’t made of big milestones or announcements. It’s made of ordinary mornings, quick conversations, and small decisions about how we treat each other. And when you remember that today is both One More Day or One Less Day, those decisions begin to matter a little more.

Maybe you pick up the phone instead of putting it off. Maybe you offer encouragement instead of criticism. Maybe you slow down long enough to notice someone who could use a kind word. None of those things require anything extraordinary. They just require the awareness that time keeps moving whether we pay attention or not.

Living Between the Two Truths

The beauty of this realization is that it holds two truths at the same time. Today really is one more opportunity. One more chance to do something good. One more chance to show kindness. One more chance to live in a way that reflects the kind of person we hope to become.

But it’s also one less day waiting for us to begin. That tension isn’t meant to scare us. It simply reminds us that the ordinary day sitting in front of us is the place where life is actually happening. And maybe that’s the quiet wisdom hidden inside that thought that came to me over a cup of coffee. Every sunrise brings one more chance to live well. And one less reason to wait.

✨ Roadside Reflection:

One More Day or One Less Day isn’t meant to frighten us. It’s meant to wake us up. Every morning gives us another opportunity to show kindness, repair something broken, or tell someone they matter. But it also reminds us that time keeps moving forward whether we notice it or not. When you understand both sides of that truth, the ordinary moments of life begin to shine a little brighter. Today is one more chance to live well, and it’s one less reason to put love, grace, or courage off until tomorrow.

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I was sitting in one of my local diners one morning with a cup of coffee that had long since cooled when I learned Grief Is the Echo of Love. The place was quiet except for the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of silverware against a plate. Across the counter sat a man who looked like he had been awake long before the sun came up. His hands wrapped around his coffee mug the way people do when they’re trying to warm more than just their fingers.

We didn’t talk much at first. Some mornings don’t ask for conversation. They ask for quiet. After a while he looked up and said something simple. “Lost my wife last winter.” There was no drama in his voice. No attempt to make the moment heavy. Just a statement placed gently on the counter between us.

He stared down into his cup for a moment and then added, “Everyone keeps telling me the grief will pass.” He paused again and shook his head slightly. “I’m not sure I want it to.”

Grief Is the Echo of Love

That sentence stayed with me the rest of the morning. Not because it sounded hopeless, but because it sounded honest. We often treat grief like something that needs to be fixed or rushed along. Friends offer encouragement. Well-meaning advice arrives quickly. People say time heals all wounds as if grief were a broken bone that eventually mends.

But grief doesn’t work that way. Grief is not a problem to solve. It is a reflection of something that once mattered deeply. When someone we love leaves this world, the love itself doesn’t disappear. It simply has nowhere obvious to go. It lingers in memories, in habits, in quiet spaces where two lives once overlapped. That lingering love becomes what we call grief.

The Quiet Proof of Love

The man across the counter eventually told me stories about his wife. Little things mostly. The way she hummed while cooking. The way she insisted on feeding every stray cat that wandered near their porch. The way she would reach for his hand when they crossed a street even after decades of marriage. He smiled while telling those stories. The kind of smile that carries both warmth and ache at the same time.

That’s when it occurred to me that grief is not the opposite of love. It is the echo of love. Every tear, every quiet moment of longing, every memory that stops you in your tracks is simply love continuing to speak after someone is gone. And maybe that’s why grief hurts so much. It reminds us how deeply we were capable of loving someone else.

Learning to Carry the Echo

The world often encourages us to move past grief quickly. To return to normal. To close the chapter and keep walking forward. But perhaps the healthier way is not to erase the echo, but to learn how to carry it. Grief softens over time, but the love behind it never disappears. It becomes part of the way we see the world. Part of the compassion we show others. Part of the patience we develop with people who are hurting.

In that way, grief can quietly shape us into kinder people. Because once you’ve carried the echo of love, you begin to recognize it in others.

✨ Roadside Reflection:

Grief is not something to rush through or silence. It’s the quiet echo of a love that once filled your life. When someone you love is gone, the grief you feel is simply proof that the love was real. Instead of trying to escape it, honor it. Carry it gently. Because every echo of grief began as a voice of love that was strong enough to change your life and helps you embrace the idea that Grief Is the Echo of Love

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Grief Is the Echo of Love is a podcast and journal by Christopher Tuttle.

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“Don’t Be The First To Let Go.” I heard a story once about a quiet rule followed by many of the character performers at Disney parks. When a child hugs them, the character isn’t supposed to be the one who ends the hug. The child decides when it’s over. Whether it’s an official policy or just something passed along between performers doesn’t really matter to me. What stayed with me was the heart behind it. You never know how much that child might need that hug.

When I first heard that, I smiled because I realized I had been living that rule for years without ever knowing it had a name. Not in a theme park and not wearing a costume, but simply in everyday life.

Over the years I’ve had people hug me after weddings, after quiet conversations, and after moments that seemed ordinary at the time but meant something deeper to them. Sometimes the hug lasts longer than expected. Sometimes it’s the kind where neither person says anything. Two people simply stand there while the world keeps moving around them.

My instinct has always been the same. Don’t be the first one to let go.

Don’t Be The First

Life moves fast, and most of us have learned to keep pace with it. Conversations get shortened. Encouragement becomes quick advice. Kindness turns into a passing gesture before we rush on to the next responsibility waiting for us. We pat someone on the back, say something polite, and move on before the moment has a chance to breathe.

But every now and then someone needs a little more time. Sometimes they need someone to listen a little longer. Sometimes they need a moment where they don’t feel rushed or dismissed. Sometimes they need to know that for a brief moment in the day, they truly matter.

That simple Disney hug idea suddenly feels bigger when you think about it that way. A child doesn’t always have the words to explain what they’re feeling. But they know how to hold on. They know when they feel safe. And they know when they’re ready to let go. Maybe adults are not all that different.

Kindness That Stays a Little Longer

I’ve started noticing how often the world pushes us to move on quickly. Someone shares a concern and we give them a fast answer. Someone needs encouragement and we offer a short sentence meant to fix things. Someone is carrying something heavy and we give them a polite smile before returning to our schedule.

But real kindness sometimes asks for something different. It asks for presence instead of speed. It asks for patience instead of solutions. Staying a little longer can mean letting someone finish their story. It can mean allowing silence instead of filling it with advice. It can mean offering grace without trying to control the outcome.

Moments like that rarely make headlines. They don’t show up on a highlight reel and they rarely get applause. Yet those are often the moments people remember years later. They remember the person who stayed.

Don’t Be The First to Let Go Why It Matters

The lesson behind Don’t Be the First to Let Go isn’t really about hugs at all. It’s about recognizing that every person you meet may be carrying something unseen. A worry, a disappointment, a quiet loneliness, or simply the exhaustion that comes from trying to keep up with life.

When someone reaches out for connection, encouragement, or comfort, the most powerful response might simply be refusing to rush the moment. Stay a little longer. Listen a little deeper. Let the conversation finish its natural course instead of forcing it to end. Because you never really know what someone else is carrying when they reach out for a moment of kindness.

✨ Roadside Reflection:

Don’t Be the First to Let Go. Some kindness doesn’t need words, and some moments shouldn’t be rushed. When someone reaches out for connection, encouragement, or comfort, stay a little longer. Listen a little deeper. Let the hug, the conversation, or the moment last as long as it needs to. You never know how much someone may need that moment of grace.

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Do Not Grow Weary is a life lesson more should explore and more importantly, experience. I was sitting in a Route 66 diner with both hands wrapped around a thick ceramic mug, letting the steam warm more than just my fingers. It was one of those mornings where the sun came in sideways through dusty windows and the world felt unhurried. For once, I wasn’t behind schedule. I wasn’t chasing a deadline. I was simply present.

An old farmer slid into the booth across from me because the rest of the counter was full. His overalls had faded into a color you can’t buy in stores. His boots were worn smooth. His hands looked like they’d argued with dirt most of their life and kept showing up anyway.

We talked about weather, rain, and diesel prices. The kind of small talk that feels like stretching before something deeper. I asked him if he was planting this year. He nodded and stirred his coffee. “Been planting longer than I’ve been harvesting,” he said. That line settled into me.

Do Not Grow Weary in Planting Season

I asked him if it ever bothered him when the harvest was thin. When the rain came late. When the yield didn’t match the effort. He shrugged. “You don’t plant for applause,” he said. “You plant because it’s planting season.” There was no drama in his voice. Just certainty. Outside the window, trucks moved along Route 66 like they always had. Inside, silverware clinked and someone laughed near the register. “Some years,” he continued, “you don’t see much come up. Doesn’t mean it’s not working. Some seeds take their time. Some harvests aren’t meant for the man who put them in the ground.”

That’s when Galatians 6:9 rose quietly in my mind. Paul’s words, steady and practical: do not grow weary in doing good, because in due season there will be a harvest. He doesn’t say you’ll see the harvest. He just says there is one.

The Kind of Harvest You May Never See

I thought about the notes left under sugar dispensers. The breakfasts quietly paid for. The episodes recorded and uploaded without knowing who will listen. The words written long before anyone reads them. It’s easy to measure response. It’s easy to look for numbers, comments, reactions. It’s easy to grow weary when effort doesn’t immediately echo back.

But the farmer didn’t measure that way. He planted because it was time to plant. He trusted seasons more than statistics. Out along the desert edges of Route 66, there are stretches of land that look lifeless. Dry soil. Cracked earth. Nothing visible moving beneath the surface. But one steady rain can wake seeds that have been waiting patiently underground.

Do Not Grow Weary isn’t a motivational slogan. It’s a reminder about seasons. Some seeds wait. Some seeds belong to the next pair of hands. Some harvests are gathered by people you’ll never meet.

Faithfulness Over Applause

As I sat there holding my coffee, I realized something else. Weariness often comes from wanting proof. Wanting to see results. Wanting confirmation that what we’re doing matters. But faithfulness doesn’t require visibility. Paul didn’t promise applause. He promised a season. The old farmer didn’t plant because he was guaranteed abundance that year. He planted because planting was his calling in that moment.

And maybe that’s what Do Not Grow Weary really means. Not that you’ll watch the field turn gold in front of you. Not that every act of kindness will circle back in a visible way. But that nothing planted in obedience is wasted. There will be a harvest. Even if it isn’t yours to gather.

✨ Roadside Reflection:

Do Not Grow Weary. Not because you’ll see immediate results, but because faithfulness always plants something. You may never stand in the field where it grows. You may never watch the seed break soil. But there will be a harvest. Keep planting kindness. Keep recording the episode. Keep leaving the note. Keep doing good. The season belongs to God, and the harvest is already promised.

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“Still More Road Ahead”

I’ve driven Route 66 in every state but one. From California’s desert wind to the sandstone cliffs of New Mexico…
the neon diners, the ghost towns, the wide-open silence that stretches like a balm across Arizona and Oklahoma and Texas. I’ve rolled through all of it. All of it… except Illinois.

That one stretch — the beginning, technically — has managed to slip through my fingers. Missed it when I left Ohio heading west. Missed it again coming back from the Pacific, tired and ready for home. It’s the last piece I haven’t driven. And in some strange way, that missing leg keeps the dream alive.

See, I didn’t set out to “do Route 66” in some checklist kind of way. I wasn’t trying to collect motel postcards or snap selfies at every kitschy roadside stop. I just needed space. The kind you don’t find on an interstate. The kind that lets your spirit catch its breath.

Because the truth is, I hit the road in pieces. Not broken exactly, just… stretched thin. Like so many of us, I had that fog behind the eyes,
that tightness in the chest, that quiet hum of exhaustion that doesn’t shut off when the laptop does. And one day, I just knew: I needed to go somewhere that didn’t need anything from me. So I drove.

Didn’t overthink it. Just followed the road where it wanted to go. And what I found, mile by mile, was something slower. Something quieter. Something healing, not in the dramatic, “change your life in a weekend” kind of way, but in the gentle kind. The kind that sneaks up on you between gas stations and forgotten towns,
under wide skies and at diners where no one cares what you do for a living. Somewhere in New Mexico, I pulled off at a trading post. Bought a cup of coffee in a paper cup and stood there while the wind kicked up little dust devils in the parking lot.

Nothing special. No epiphany. But something in me exhaled. And I started to feel… human again. That’s the magic of this road. It doesn’t care how many emails you’ve ignored. It doesn’t ask you to hustle or fix yourself. It just rolls out in front of you and says, “You good? Let’s keep going.”

There’s a kind of therapy that happens behind the wheel at 55 miles an hour, with nothing but static on the radio and a sky big enough to remind you your problems aren’t permanent. Out there, healing doesn’t come on cue. It comes when it’s ready. In a diner booth. At a gas pump. Sitting on a motel bed staring at a map you forgot you’d been tracing with your finger. And that map? It still has Illinois waiting.

Funny thing is, I don’t feel incomplete. That last leg isn’t a failure. It’s an invitation. It reminds me that the journey isn’t finished, and neither am I. I think we all need something like that. A stretch of road we haven’t driven yet. Something ahead. Some place calling us not because we need to escape, but because we’re ready to return — to ourselves.

One day, I’ll drive that Illinois stretch. From Joliet down through the old alignments. I’ll sit in a booth somewhere near Pontiac, order something smothered in gravy, and let that last piece click into place. But even before I get there, Route 66 has already done its work. It gave me time. It gave me silence. It gave me a place to feel small in the best possible way. And it gave me back the parts of myself that the rush of life had worn thin.

So if your spirit’s running low, if your heart feels tangled and your head’s too full… You don’t need a grand plan. Just a tank of gas and a little room to unravel. Start wherever you are. Go as far as you need. And leave space for what’s still to come. Because sometimes the healing isn’t in what you’ve completed — It’s in the knowing that there’s still more road ahead.

Healing Highway is a monthly video and stand-alone podcast rooted in mental wellness, spiritual reflection, and lived experience along Route 66. Each episode blends real stories with warm humor, plain-spoken faith, and practical insight for everyday life.

These stories are filmed in ordinary places — diners, quiet overlooks, motel parking lots, small towns that still believe kindness is a reasonable way to live. No hype. No hurry. No performance. Just storytelling, honesty, and the reminder that healing usually begins with one small step.

Listen to Still More Road Ahead. Podcast

Watch the Still More Road Ahead Youtube Video

Read more Healing Highway stories like Still More Road Ahead HERE.

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“Center of Attention Without Being Seen”.

That’s a line I use with couples when they’re deciding whether I’m the right officiant for their wedding. I tell them I have the toughest job of anyone on their wedding day. Tougher than the coordinator, the caterer, the photographer, the videographer and the florist… And… I can prove it.

I have to be the center of attention without being seen and I have to do all the talking without being heard. I’m usually standing between two people who don’t want to be the center of attention and don’t want to be heard. My job is to carry the moment without owning it. They laugh when I say it. But I mean every word.

Matthew 6 at a Wedding

Lately I’ve been sitting with Matthew 6:1-6. The warning about practicing righteousness in front of others to be seen by them. It’s a passage that keeps you honest. It doesn’t condemn giving. It questions the audience. And if I’m being truthful, that passage makes me examine myself.

I share stories. I write about buying breakfast. I write about buying cups of coffee. I talk about leaving notes under sugar dispensers. I ask people to live Matthew 25, to feed someone, to help someone, to move toward need instead of away from it. It’s a fine line. Am I teaching or performing? Am I encouraging or subtly hoping someone thinks, “Look at him?” That question isn’t comfortable. But it’s necessary.

The other day I saw a woman wearing a shirt that proudly displayed how much she had given to a cause. The number was bold. Visible. Meant to be seen. My first reaction surprised me. My heart hurt a little. Not because giving is wrong. Giving is beautiful. But because I felt the tension between generosity and display. Then the harder question came. Have I ever done the same thing in a softer way?

Shining Without Spotlight

That’s when I remembered the wedding line. If I’ve done my job well, no one leaves the ceremony talking about me. They remember the moment. They remember the vows. They remember the tears. They remember the love. If someone says, “That officiant was incredible,” I’ve probably missed something. The goal isn’t invisibility. The goal is clarity. The couple should shine. The covenant should shine. The love should shine. I’m just there to hold the microphone.

And that’s what Matthew 6 feels like. It’s not telling us to hide our light. Jesus said to let it shine. It’s telling us not to aim the light at ourselves. There’s a difference between illuminating the path and spotlighting the performer. When I leave a note under the sugar, I don’t sign it. Not because I’m trying to be mysterious.

Because I don’t want the gratitude to land on me. I want it to keep moving. When I share a story here, I’m not trying to say, “Look what I did.” I’m trying to say, “This is possible. You can do this too.” But I have to check my heart. Constantly. Because ego doesn’t need a stage. It’s happy with a whisper.

The Quiet Kind of Leadership

There’s a quiet kind of leadership that doesn’t announce itself. It feeds someone and walks away. It tips generously and says nothing. It prays in a parking lot without broadcasting the outcome. It stands at the front of a wedding and disappears into the vows.

That’s the kind of life I want. Not invisible. But properly positioned. I don’t want to be admired for kindness. I want kindness to become normal. I don’t want applause for generosity. I want generosity to feel accessible.

And sometimes that means sharing the story. Not to elevate myself, but to lower the barrier for someone else. Because there was a time when I needed to see that it could be done in ordinary places. At a diner counter. In a coffee shop. In a parking lot beside a mechanic’s shop. If someone reads this and feels nudged to act, then the story has done its work. If they forget my name but remember the idea, even better.

That’s the wedding metaphor again. Center of attention without being seen. Voice carrying without being heard. Love shining brighter than the one holding the microphone. I say, “If someone comes up to you afterward and says, ‘Hey Christopher, what’s his phone number?… that means I failed. But if they come up to you and say, “That guy who did your wedding, do you have his number?’ that means I succeeded.”

✨ Roadside Reflection:

There’s a difference between shining a light and shining it on yourself. Matthew 6 isn’t about hiding your goodness. It’s about guarding your motive. You can share what’s possible without making yourself the point. Be the center of attention without being seen. Do the talking without being heard. Let love take the spotlight. If they remember the kindness but forget your name, you’ve done it right. I hope I’m remembered as one that illuminated the path.

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Faith and Good Courage is a podcast and journal by Christopher Tuttle.

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