Miles & Mercy — No. 05 Holding On: What Brandon Lake's Music Found in Me

I was in Omaha on April 11th. 

CHI Health Center. Brandon Lake, King of Hearts Tour.

Pat Barrett. Franni Cash. 

I didn't go because I had a free night.

I went because I needed it. 

There's a difference.

What Worship Does When You've Been Running Hard

There's a specific kind of empty that OTR produces. 

Not burnout, exactly.

Not depression.

Just — depleted. 

The kind of depleted that comes from giving everything to the road for weeks at a stretch, running on discipline and coffee and the next milestone, and forgetting somewhere along the way to stop and be filled. 

I didn't realize how empty I was until the music started and something in me just — released. 

That's the only word for it.

Released.

What Happened in That Room

I'm not going to over-explain it. 

Some things lose something when you try to describe them too precisely. 

But I will say this: 

There's something that happens when a few thousand people stop performing faith and just — have it. Together. Out loud. In the same room. 

The road is solo by nature.

It's you and God and the miles. 

That's real. That's good. I mean that. 

But there's something else that happens in a room full of people who are all holding on to the same thing. 

Something that reminds you you're not the only one white-knuckling it.

Not the only one who needed this.

Not the only one who showed up a little worn and left a little restored.

What Brandon Lake's Music Does

His songs don't let you stay at the surface. 

They find the place in you that's been quietly afraid and they speak directly to it. 

Not with answers, exactly.

With presence. 

You are not forgotten.

You are not alone.

Hold on. 

I've heard those messages before.

But music delivers them somewhere words alone don't reach. 

Somewhere in the chest.

Somewhere that bypasses the arguing mind and just lands. 

I needed that landing.

What I Took Back to the Truck

I drove out of Omaha different than I drove in. 

Not fixed. Not floating.

Just — steadier. 

Reminded of something I know but forget to feel: that the faith I practice alone in the cab is connected to something much larger than me. 

A body of people.

A long story.

A God who keeps showing up in arenas and interstates and 3 AM silences alike. 

The road can make you feel like you're operating solo. 

That night reminded me I'm not.

For the Driver Who Can't Remember the Last Time They Were Filled

Go. 

I don't care what it is.

A concert. A service. A song you turn up loud in the cab at mile 400. 

Find the thing that fills you back up and don't wait until you're running on fumes to do it.

I waited longer than I should have. 

And standing in that arena, holding on to something bigger than the next load, bigger than the next mile — 

I was grateful I finally stopped long enough to let it find me. 

One Safe Mile  —  Renae Savage

one-safe-mile.com