Zeb, an Australian shepherd, crossed the "520 Bridge," spanning Lake Washington.  (For those keeping notes, the "520," the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge, is the longest floating bridge on earth, almost one and one-half miles in length.)

And what was Zeb doing on the bridge?  He was just trying to find his way home.

His owners had gone on vacation, and left him with friends (in "Eastlake," maybe a half mile or so from their Madrona neighborhood, near Seattle).  Homesick, Zeb set out, ending up on a major Seattle freeway. Notices on social networking sites reported him crossing the 520 Bridge, weaving across the eastbound and westbound lanes.  Drivers drove defensively on Zeb's behalf, slowing down to help the wayward pooch.

Owner Megan Ferestien told the Seattle Times, "He sort of vaguely knows the area and I think somehow he just made some bad decisions and ended up in the wrong place. Luckily, he had so many guardian angels on 520 who were helping him across. People, who were in rush hour traffic, were slowing down to keep him safe, which was just really, well, extraordinary."  She added, "He should have taken the Arboretum exit, but he missed it."

From all the social network chatter, the search area was narrowed and Zeb was found, two days later, hiding in Hunt's Point (on the opposite side of the lake from where he lived).  Zeb heard his owner talking on a cell phone, came out of his hiding spot and did lots of tail wagging, and crying, and rolling on his back to have his belly rubbed.

I'm glad Zeb made it home.  His caper-filled journey captured our attention, and tugged at something in our hearts.  I'm more stirred by the fact that he had the pluck and courage and hopefulness to set out in the first place... having no idea whatsoever of the outcome.  It was as simple as this: something in Zeb told him he needed to go home.

I resonate because I know we live in a world where it's easy to lose our way or to be stuck or derailed or to feel trapped or "not at home" or unbalanced... or just plain lost.  And we want someone to show us the way.  Or give us the answers.  Or at least the GPS coordinates.

There's another pet story from several years ago that comes to mind.  A magazine ad sponsored by the Humane Society, looking for homes for homeless pets.  A photo of a puppy and kitten--looking up at you from the page--catches your eye and your heart.  But it's the affirmation on the top of the ad that sticks, "It's who owns them that makes them important."

In this culture of consumption, many things can own us.  The list is long.  But here is what is important to us today: we do not set out--on any journey--in order to acquire this identity. 

Or this meaning. 

Or this home. 

Here's the deal: Love (or worth, or value, or esteem, or meaning) is not something you produce or achieve or acquire. 

It is not something that you even have. 

Love is something that has you. 

You do not have the wind, the stars, and the rain.  You don't possess these things; you surrender to them.  And maybe, that surrender begins with an unforeseen journey across a long bridge.

I do know this--we cannot make this journey as long as we cling.  If we cannot let go (of our need for certainty or answers), we cannot find our way back.  Although, to be honest, I can see why the need to produce--or achieve, or impress, or acquire--appeals to us.  We feel some sense of control.  However, when it all gets muddled with faith, we have an odd concoction where the goal is clear; we wish to be rid of all doubt.

Here's the problem; the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty.

That sounds like Zeb's story to me.  Or, in the words of Henri Nouwen...

It means a gradual process of coming home to where we belong and listening there to the voice which desires our attention.  Home is the place where that first love dwells and speaks gently to us.