We were coming home from an author visit with the Lincoln Public Library, where we made some wonderful new friends. In our defense, we were deep in conversation when we took that wrong turn. And since we had made it to Lincoln without a hitch, I’m afraid we got a little full of ourselves and turned off the GPS. Bad decision.
Here’s the thing about Mama and me. We always get lost. It’s who we are. It’s what we do when we’re together. We’ve never gotten more than 10 miles or so off course before we realized our mistake and corrected ourselves. But we always make at least one wrong turn. Yesterday, I remember a break in our conversation when I squinted at the horizon and said, “Is that Cheaha Mountain?” Mama had a look. “Well . . . we’re in that area . . .”
The great difference between us is that I can be exactly where I’m supposed to be and still worry that I’m lost; Mama can be lost as a goose but remains supremely confident that she knows what she’s doing.
We’re a lot like that in our spiritual walks. Mama never has any doubt that, even when a particular turn on her journey makes no sense to her, it’s taking her she was meant to go. I, on the other hand, can be traveling through some amazing terrain, and I’m still worrying about potential pot holes ahead.
This Sunday morning, I’m thankful for friends, old and new; blessed by the opportunity to tell stories; trying to do better at trusting the road ahead of me; and tickled to death that I got to spend yesterday afternoon lost—but not really—with Mama riding shotgun.