The following is a post written by Sam Mather. He shared some of his observations and thoughts on rural America with us last night during vespers. I asked him if he would share them on the blog and he said yes.

I have never been to rural America before. I’ve never really wanted to go, either: while I consider myself well-traveled, I’ve pretty much only been to cities, and my experience with rural areas has been limited to the occasional news article or landscape painting.

Don’t get me wrong – I wasn’t one of the people who got bored on the bus ride. I was more than happy to look at even the Nebraskan scenery, and wonder about the last hundred years and how the land and the people and buildings have changed…but we would pass a tiny town or two every few hours and interrupt my monotony-inspired reflections. I think I only actually saw other people once. But the sight of houses prompted some thinking:

For example, how do people, on a daily basis/in a routine sense, live here? It was only driving though the residential area of Axtel, Nebraska (where we’re staying tonight) that I realized I truly have no idea what the daily life of a rural American is. I learned guitar by deciding what model I wanted, going to the local Guitar Center, buying it from a selection of hundreds, choosing from the four or five places that offer music lessons, and supplementing my excellent lessons with YouTube videos and books from the local Barnes and Noble. I learned to draw by deciding I wanted to and then reading just about every art book the three huge, local libraries had, drawing with supplies purchased from Blick, making visits to the phenomenal Art Institute, and taking all the classes the excellent local high school offered.

But here – based on the admittedly fractional view I’ve had – I don’t think I would be anywhere near so tapped into such a thriving cultural and artistic community. Ignoring the Internet for a moment, imagine someone here wants to learn to play guitar or draw. Back in Naperville, they would have nearly infinite resources. But from what I’ve seen here, there are no paintings on the walls or shelves stuffed with books. There’s not even a library, as far as I can tell. I haven’t seen any museums or music stores. All the artistic landmarks that I am proud to learn from seem to be missing here. All the things that, back home or on an ordinary trip, make me feel like I am a part of something important don’t seem to exist here. As a highly cultured musician, artist, and academic, I clearly have nothing in common with the people here.

The thing is, I do. At some point it clicked that, although I am at the fringe of the universe as far as I am concerned, and no one here will make headlines, they are exactly no less important than I am. I have to acknowledge that as overwhelming as my daily life feels to me, their daily lives feel to them, and God empathizes completely and perfectly with both of us. We talk about “centers of the world” – New York for art, D.C. for politics – but in God’s eyes, all the world is equally weighted. As busy and important as I feel in Naperville, God puts just as much stock in my teenage counterparts out here (and he’s right to). Naperville may have Chicago, but to God, that makes us no better, no more human.

My other thought came from the highway. Before we got to Nebraska, we were actually passing towns on a regular basis and seeing people and traffic on occasion. It was strange to go so far; Naperville is essentially the center of my world. I don’t think about places outside of it. But in the space of six hours, we passed thousands of other towns and cities that, for the people there, are microcosms for them the way Naperville is for me.

And while my Naperville problems are overwhelming, passing so many places to live made me realize that I am one of 300 million people in the country with problems. They are confusing, and I don’t know how they will turn out. No matter how often I sing that God takes care of all of us, I will never stop stressing out. But I don’t worry about the people in the rest of the country, or the world. Ever. I am sure that God will take care of them. My faith applies to them – but my problems are real in a way that theirs are not. To God, though, all their problems are on the same plane as mine and mine are on the same as theirs. The confusion, the doubt – they are universal feelings.

I think the distance – the superficial contact with these little worlds – really drove home to me that the world works. God has made an incredible creation, no matter how unhappy I get or how convinced that everything is going wrong – my world will keep going, the same that Clive, Iowa will keep going despite the problems and flaws of its residents; the same that Axtel, Nebraska, will keep going despite the worries and despairs of its residents. On a gut level, in bad times, it seems like the world can’t keep going. But the fact that other people feel that way and their worlds keep going is proof that what God has put together no man can tear asunder; that, in fact, our country is wise to trust in God.