Off Course.

It's cold. I run out in boots with no socks to crank up the V6 beast of an engine for my mom-mobile while the kids anxiously await indoors. Load them up between the oofs and umps of climbing aboard, seatbelts fastened, kid songs blare. Reach the end of the street and already the questions begin: Where are we going? How long is eighty minutes? Does it take eighty minutes to get where we are going? Why are we focusing on the number eighty...

Drive a little farther and brief the troops of the day's itinerary. Pediatrician, lunch, Target. But in what order? Who is getting shots? Can I get a blue Icee at Target? Which prompts me to blurt out through clenched teeth, How fast does this thing go? Does it have automatic transmission? Does it have four wheel drive? To which I hear a soft reply from the third row passengers, What is four wheel drive?

Not even a Home Alone reference can tame this traveling mobile of inquiry.

If I change the course of the day, at all, it is devastating. If I do Target before lunch instead of after. If the Icee machine is broken on the "blue side" and all they have is lemonade. She has to know, planned, every hour of every day. 

Yet, on the way home, He hears, Why does she ask so many questions? What if I fall asleep at the wheel? When will my adult acne finally clear up? When will you answer the one, single prayer we have been praying for everyday for fourteen months now?  

Then, in that silent moment between Raccoon Valley Road and Clinton. You know, the moment when they all fall asleep and you decide to take the Clinton exit, and cruise slowly through Norris to add an extra fifteen minutes to the trip. Just for the quiet. Just to gaze at that little, white, one room church house that has stood since your childhood. To search for a deer or two, grazing on what little they can find in the dead of winter. To hit the smooth pavement across Norris Dam, where the water seems to span as far as the eye can see. 

It is in these moments you stop asking questions and begin to hear His answers.

It is simply this: stay on course. For He is not the one changing the plans. It is you that is changing. You think you can change the plans when you take your eyes off Him and onto your self. That's when you, like Peter, sink instead of swim. 

And the water is so, so cold. 

Trust His plans. Follow His word. His word breathes patience. And guidance. And promises of a better tomorrow.

Then, a rustling from the backseat, squinty eyes and damp locks: Are we almost home, Mommy?

Yes, dear. Yes we are.

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