Boot Camp Continues

In all the beauty that surrounded that Sunday afternoon on the back porch, God was stirring up a boot camp special just for me. Remember those things I was supposed to be working on in my desert? Remember how fear was one of them? In the span of just 10 days prior to that afternoon, I had:

1) Driven on an interstate, around Indianapolis, and missed my exit getting to my sister's house.
2) Flown alone for the first time ever.
3) Flown alone for the second time ever.
4) Driven home on the interestate after my trip to Virginia Beach
5) Driven on the interstate AGAIN to go to my sister's for the concert (this time had a detour).
6) Driven home AGAIN on the interstate.

And yet I still hated the thing.

But Sunday afternoon as God and I had that conversation you read a couple of days ago, I received a message from my friend Ronda, who is Jonathan's mom. The same day I'd left for Virginia Beach, Jonathan had left on a road trip of his own. As we'd briefly chatted about our vacations prior to leaving, I'd said something about being able to pick him up at the airport if he needed a ride. I only said it because I thought it unlikely to occur.

That was because I didn't know about boot camp.

Ronda called and said Jonathan had mentioned I'd be able to pick him up. She was supposed to go get him, but she was so tired, and she knew I wasn't sleeping anyway, so she wondered if I really could get him.

I gulped.

And yet I'd been chanting Philippians 4:13 with great fervor throughout the desert journey. If I could get out of bed with God's strength, certainly airport navigation could be done with the same strength.

So I said yes.

First order of business? Look up the airport route online. I entered my starting and ending destinations and studied the path it laid out for me. The roads didn’t look quite like the path Ronda recommended on the phone.

Second order of business? Consult a local. I sent a message to a friend who lives near the airport and asked advice for the best route. He advised the same path Ronda told me about, so I dug into the recesses of random mental trivia and recalled the time I’d watched Isaac searching for directions online. He’d dragged the path on the computer screen until it fit the way he wanted it to go, and the directions recalculated for him. I tried it and it worked! (Now why couldn’t the path through the wilderness submit to that sort of thing?)

Third order of business? Find a GPS. I’m so technologically behind, it’s embarrassing. One of the dozens of gadgets I don’t own is a GPS. But somehow, the idea of navigating a four lane highway in the heart of the city, after dark, with printed instructions in twelve point font seemed to point to disaster. Though I’m ordinarily opposed to asking for charity, I allowed logic to overrule pride for a moment and called my friend, Judy, who had once offered to loan me her GPS for another trip. She was home and not planning to make a midnight run anywhere, so I was free to borrow it. By the time I got to her house, she had even charged it and put in the directions so it would be ready for use.

Fourth order of business? Read the online directions again and again, just in case the GPS failed. I memorized exit numbers and tried to envision general paths.

And so it was that at 10:00, I slid into the driver’s seat of my car and plopped the borrowed GPS on my dash. Squaring my shoulders and grasping the wheel firmly at 10 and 2, I pointed my car toward the interstate and began my journey. The road was blessedly empty at that time of night and I navigated smoothly toward the heart of the city.

Suddenly the road that I thought would be a straight shot from the interstate to the airport began to curve and merge and because I was stuck behind a semi (with construction barriers bursting past dreadfully close to my passenger side), I couldn’t see the signs. With blood pressure rising, I phoned the local who had earlier advised me on the route. He assured me I was still on the right road and told me it would continue to do that until I got to the airport. Why don’t people tell me these things?

My little GPS man continued to feed me evenly spoken directions and at last, I found myself headed toward the parking lot to sit and wait for the call to come to the curb. I double checked the locks on my doors (after all, it was midnight) and pulled out the prayer cards I’d brought to occupy my wait.

When I received the message saying the plane had just landed, I looked out the car window and said, Thank You, LORD. Who would have thought that this girl who was crippled by fear of city driving for so many years would rather impulsively borrow a GPS, hop in her car, drive alone at night to the airport and do it all successfully?

Jonathan found his way to the door of the airport and I sidled up next to the curb and popped the trunk for his suitcase. As I hopped out of the car I said with perhaps a bit too much eagerness, “Hey, you want to drive home?” After all, let’s not get too crazy with this fear conquering!

But I remember the thought that occurred to me shortly before the road got crazy on me: The desert is kind of like driving to the airport. One sign at a time. One mile at a time. You just go forward. Sometimes it’s a straight shot. Sometimes it’s crazy curvy and confusing. Sometimes it’s easy going. Sometimes it’s fast and scary. But you do it. You call for help when you need…you listen to the Voice feeding you the directions…and eventually you arrive. And it’s all done in His strength.