Lost in Life
Having lived in Denver for more than six years and visited a number of times since we moved back east, I never dreamed of getting lost there. Yet on our recent vacation, that’s exactly what happened.
One night, as we left our son’s apartment for our hotel southeast of the city, I decided it would be nice to skip I-25 Indy 500 racetrack atmosphere. So, I turned south early and headed towards a crossroad that ran near our hotel.
I decided to follow that street rather than the road leading directly to our hotel because of the construction nightmare in the area. The night before, that closed off one lane of an access road. A closing, by the way, for which there was no warning, leaving me to dodge road barriers before a polite driver allowed me to scoot over to the other lane.
The trouble with taking the crossroad: it didn’t run straight through to the access road. Suddenly, I found myself wandering in circles through a subdivision with strange street signs. And, unlike most in the metro area, no numbering to indicate their proximity to the city center.
Worse than that—I lost all sense of direction. I had no idea of where we were headed, nor which way to turn when I finally reached a main road. So, I turned the wrong way, and grew more frantic when the next thoroughfare was far west of our destination.
A couple blocks later, I turned into a gas station. Although the operator spoke broken English, I grasped that if I turned right at the next street, I would reach our hotel’s access road.
As we soon drove by familiar names again, it dawned on me that I had turned west instead of east several minutes earlier. I never made that mistake again after verifying with our son which roads connected with the thoroughfare that ran near his home.
Yet, the surprises weren’t over. The day we returned our car to the airport, I followed the signs directing us to rental returns—only to feel my heart pounding and my mouth turning dry when we passed lot after lot with no sign of our company.
Glad that I had built an extra 30 minutes into our schedule to make sure we could enjoy a leisurely breakfast at the airport, I finally searched for someone I figured could help—a shuttle bus driver.
Sure enough, she told me that I needed to continue to a road that lay just beyond where I had turned around, thinking there were no more rental companies. And, even offered to let me follow her in that direction.
Turns out our company was three blocks away from most others (which may have been why they were so much more reasonably-priced).
With my nerves calmed again, I reflected on the parallel between getting lost twice in the Mile High City and making it through life.
Without divine guidance, I am a dead duck. I won’t know where I’m going, how to get there, or what to do once I have arrived. Which is the practical nature of faith.