I pray the Divine Office every day. Also known as the Liturgy of the Hours, this regimen of prayer is one way in which the Church prays without ceasing. (I Thessalonians 5:17) 
            Hour after hour, across the face of the earth, this liturgy commends every worldly need to God and dedicates all human labor to the on-going work of Creation. 
            I rarely manage to fit each segment into my daily routine, yet each scheduled time for prayer—morning, midmorning, noon, midafternoon, evening and night—is a gentle nudge to focus on the embrace of God in whom we “live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28).
            Living in a remote region of Texas, I often find myself on the road at designated prayer times. If cell-phone service happens to be available, I’ll access one of several websites that offers audio versions of the Office. 
            This practice satisfies my obligation to pray the Hours, but it also exposes me to a near occasion of sin. Why? Because readers on these websites tend to overly dramatize their recitation of the psalms and readings…and this drives me up the wall! (Imagine Taylor  Swift proclaiming the Magnificat.)
            My response? “Lord, in your mercy, tell them to Quit. Faking. It.”
            Amen. Alleluia.
            To counter my hyper-critical reaction during a recent three-day road trip, I endeavored to harness the irritating occasion of sin and transform it into an occasion of grace…and it worked!
            After listening to a dramatic rendition of the Divine Office, I began dramatizing scenarios related to scenery outside my truck window. This led to offering prayers pertinent to those scenes. For instance, a falling-down barn prompted prayers for farmers struggling to maintain their livelihood. A rundown motel produced petitions for weary travelers with meager resources. A billboard advertising an amusement park rendered reflections on marriage and families. Signs for MacDonald’s and Burger King sparked intercessions for cooks flipping burgers and cashiers at drive-thru windows.   
            A highway patrol car hunkered beneath a grove of sycamores induced prayers for the protection of officers in situations of danger. A hospital at the edge of Joplin, Missouri prompted prayers for doctors, nurses, orderlies, as well as all the sick. Later that evening, the rumble of a cattle truck carried my thoughts back to Texas and friends who work in feedlots. Not far down the road, the lighted steeple of a country church conferred a blessing on my long-haul litany.
            During World War I, the Jesuit theologian, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, served as a chaplain in the French army. One morning, unable to offer Mass due to a lack of hosts and wine, he climbed a hill outside the town where his garrison was encamped. Gazing down on farmers working in the fields, smoke billowing from factory chimneys, horses pulling carts and children walking to school he offered, in place of the Eucharist, the diligent work and faithful service unfolding beneath his gaze in the valley below. 
            Father de Chardin titled his reflection, “Mass on the World.” I’ll follow suit and call my highway meditation “Liturgy of the Miles.”