My friend Lynn is an always-friend. We
met when my family was in the U.S. during my 4th grade year. Every time I came back to
northern Indiana after that, I would find Lynn and the thread of our friendship
would pick up, unbroken. We are friends simply because we are.
Lynn is now a minister and on a recent
trip to Indiana to help my mother, it occurred to me that I finally had a
Sunday free to go and listen to Lynn preach. She gave me the address of her
church and even an approximate driving time. I left 15 minutes earlier than
that, just in case.
As it turns out, I needn't have
bothered.
With the address entered into my
phone's GPS, I drove down highway 30, then turned north on 35. A few miles up highway
35, I came to a T-intersection. "Road Closed", said the sign in front
of me. There were no detour arrows.
The smart thing would have been to turn
around and go back down to 30.
I didn't do that.
Instead, and with apologies to Robert
Frost, I opted for the road that looked more traveled and played my luck. After driving approximately west for several miles, I began to see a few houses. I
looked around for a city limit sign. There was none. The road eventually
took me to what could optimistically be called the town square. There was no
one around. The only store said "Groceries" and "Open", but
the light was dim and it seemed like this would be the part in the movie where
the violins started to softly keen. I pulled into the empty parking lot and took
out my phone.
"La Porte, Indiana", I asked
my GPS. It obediently showed me the city somewhere to my north. I clicked on "Directions to there."
"Use current location?" my GPS wondered.
I said yes and waited. The cursor
twirled and twirled and finally gave me an answer: "Location
Unknown."
Just in case, I went through the steps
again. And again. Each time, I was firmly advised that my current location was
Unknown.
Maybe I should backtrack after all, I
thought, and pulled out of the parking lot. As I turned up the other side of
the street, I saw a couple standing in their yard. Several pots of new flowers
sat ready to be planted in fresh beds under the windows but they just stood there watching me. They looked vastly amused.
They were also the first people I'd seen in
that little hamlet. Pulling over, I rolled down my window and asked, "How
do I get to La Porte?" My voice sounded a little plaintive, even to me.
"We'll get you out of here
OK," the man assured me, grinning. "Just turn around and go to the stop
sign. Turn right, then right again at the next stop sign. You'll go over the
railroad tracks. After that it says "road closed", but turn left.
Then around the next..." The directions went on for a while and I began to
picture myself doomed to wander among cornfields for eternity. They would tell
stories about me around campfires at night to scare little kids: the Woman
Whose Location was Unknown.
As it turned out, the directions were
easier followed than understood. The countryside was beautiful. Wildflowers edged
the gravel road. I passed an enormous weeping willow by a small pond and for a
moment was tempted to pull over and lose myself under its branches. Almost
too soon, I was back out on Highway 35, now north of the roadwork.
By the time I made it to Lynn's
church, they were singing the last song. Lynn whispered, "You're so
stinkin' late!" and we giggled and hugged. I was glad she didn't ask where
I'd been. I couldn't possibly have told her.
As it turned out, there was another
service in just half an hour. Lynn delivered a straight-forward message on unvarnished
faith and following - not even when,
but especially when - life lands you where
you never asked to go.
Like when your dad gets sick and you
spend weeks helping him die as comfortably as possible.
Or when you try to help your mom go solo
after 62 years of flying in formation.
Or when you have to rely on strangers
because every source you normally turn to has no idea where you are.
Then faith whispers that on the other side of death is Life Unimaginable. Experience reminds you that solo is a formation. And when you finally reach your destination, you find friends who forgive you your most
human moments.
It was worth
wandering the cornfields for.
Still, someday, if I can ever find a
pause button for my life, I just might go wandering on purpose.
I've got a reservation underneath a weeping
willow by a pond: Location Unknown.
