Each summer on Father’s Day weekend our church has an all-church retreat at Mo Ranch on the Guadalupe River near Hunt, Texas. The theme for this year was “Road Trip”. Our senior Pastor, Trey Little, taught three sessions each based on a road sign: yield, detour, stop.

Everyone has experienced at least one road trip in their lives. Maybe as a kid on a family vacation. Maybe in college with friends. Or maybe on your own family vacation. Road signs such as yield, detour and stop are encountered on a long road trip, but even more frequently on road trips around your home town. And they can be frustrating.

As I thought about the road signs, I decided that the detour is the one that frustrates me the most. I’m going along minding my own business, listening to the radio, making progress toward my destination and suddenly: detour. There’s workmen ahead doing no-telling-what to the road and I have to go another way. Frustrating. Time-consuming. But soon I’m back on the road making progress toward my destination.

My life has had a lot of detours. I’m going along minding my own business, making progress toward my destination and then: detour.

There are two kinds of detours: one of my own making and one that God puts in the road. Here’s the funny thing though. Since there are no actual detour signs on the road of life, it’s easy to get detoured and not even realize it. Regardless of the kind of detour, it may be years before I realize I was even on a detour, where the detour took me and when it was that I got back on the road making progress toward my destination.

Reminds me of our new kitty, Frank.

It was Friday afternoon about 2:00. The phone rang. It was our veterinarian’s office. They knew we were looking for a kitty and had one if we wanted it.He had been covered in burrs sitting in the middle of the street.  A woman had almost run over him. She brought him to the vet’s office where they cleaned him up. We should at least come see him.

Butch and I looked at each other. We were planning to go to Austin for Mother’s Day and we’d be gone overnight. How were we going to manage a new kitty? With a shrug of the shoulders we decided to have a look.

He was so small he fit in my hand. All the burrs were gone and all that was left was a little orange, fluffy thing. He started purring and snuggling up to my neck.

I looked at Butch. He looked at me. “O.K. we’ll take him.”

“Well,'” said the veterinarian tech, “he’s only about 4 weeks old which means he has to be fed every 2 or 3 hours. But he’ll lap, so you don’t have to bottle feed him.”

Oh, my!

“And,” said the tech, “you’ll have to help him go the bathroom. Dip a cotton ball in warm water and wipe his genitals like a mamma cat licking until he goes. And that should be done every 2 or 3 hours, too. Just do it every time you feed him.”

What!

In the meantime, the  kitty was purring and snuggling and chewing on my t-shirt.

To the store for cat food and kitty formula. He was so hungry; he quickly lapped it up getting himself covered in food in the process.

Our sweet neighbor, Yvette, who was going to take care of our older cat while we were away, agreed to take Frank to her house for a sleep-over on Saturday night. She is the best neighbor ever.

As soon as we pulled into our driveway on Sunday, I went to get Frank. When he heard my voice he came running and jumping for me to pick him up. After only being with me for 24 hours, he knew my voice and yearned for me to hold him. He knew who he belonged to, or maybe who belonged to him.

Through no fault of his own Frank had been on a big detour.  We don’t know how he got in the middle of the street covered in burrs, but we’re certain it was not his choice. And now he had food, warmth, cuddling, and love. He had completed his detour and was on his way toward his destination.

When we’re on a detour, sometimes we take up residence in a woodpile. Next post I’m going to tell you about a detour of my own.

Last week a friend from my childhood called to tell me that her mother, Ruth, had passed away. Ruth was the last member of the “gang”: a group of women from our first neighborhood when my parents first moved to San Antonio in the mid-1950’s. The gang consisted of my mom, Nita, and Ruth, Glatha, and Janie. Two other women, Dorothy, and Marjorie, were also in the gang, but as time went by they did not stay in close contact as the others did.

Janie’s kids were at the service also. Just hearing the names brought back so many memories. Tears welled up in my eyes. Embarrassing.

Boo had put together a collage of photos of her mom and included were some pictures of my parents who are both deceased now. They were taken at my parent’s house not long before they moved to assisted living for dementia patients: Ruth and my mom and dad gathered around a table sharing a meal together. From my parent’s first house until their last house, through fifty years of friendship they shared raising children, divorce, deaths, laughter, retirement.

We lived behind Ruth and her family only about a year, but some of my most vivid childhood memories are of spending time at their house.They lived across the alley from us. Her daughter, Boo, was a little older than me. I idolized her. Boo had an older brother, Boatie, and a younger brother, Bobby, who was my sister’s age. My sister, elegantly attired in one of our dress-up dresses, married Bobby in the alley when they were five years old. Boo had a monkey, Josephine. (I always thought it was Boo’s, but at the service I learned it was actually Ruth’s). Boo and I spent many hours coloring together. She taught me about outlining in black and staying in the lines.

Our moms and their gang got together and exercised at each other houses. They played bunco once a month even after some of them moved from the neighborhood. They met for girls-only lunches and socialized with husbands included.

When I was grown, in my early 20’s, I went to lunch with my mom and Ruth. I don’t remember the restaurant, but it was elegant with linen tablecloths and napkins. Ruth ordered a martini and so did my mom. I had never had one before, but it seemed the grown-up thing to do so I ordered a martini as well. One sip and my throat burned so badly I wondered how they could drink them. Looking back, my mom went to lunch with her friends, let her hair down a little and had a mid-day drink. And I thought I was so modern, because that’s what I do with my girlfriends. Maybe I’m more like my mom than I want to admit.

When my mom passed away, Ruth told me she wanted to come to the service but it was difficult for her to get out. As I was greeting people in the reception after the service, out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman in a wheelchair flanked by two younger people. I immediately recognized them even though I hadn’t seen them in years. It was Ruth, Boo and Boatie. Realizing the effort it took for her to come, I was very touched. What a close friendship my mom and Ruth must have shared. I know my mom would have been so honored by their presence.

As I sat in Ruth’s service missing my mom so much, wishing she was there to share memories about her friend, I thought about my own girlfriends, the ones I have known since high school in the late 60’s and even some since elementary school in the late 50’s. Friends I’ve had for almost 60 years. The ones I meet for lunch and have a mid-day drink with. Will we make the effort to be at the final services for each other? Will we attend on the arm of our children when our infirmities make walking difficult? When I’m gone, will my children attend their final services to represent me and friendships that had lasted so long?

I pray it will be so.

I was in an intimate conversation last night. It brought back memories of sitting up late at night with my best friend in high school and baring my soul, telling my inmost secrets, desires and goals. Crying and laughing with her. That doesn’t happen often in my grown-up life.I would rather encourage my conversation partner to talk about herself than reveal anything about myself. It’s hard to see from here how to be intimate with another person. And yet, that’s what I yearn for.

With so many ways to communicate–email, Facebook, Twitter–I feel like I’m communicating more. But am I actually communicating meaningfully? Just before I started writing this post, I wanted to communicate with a young woman I am mentoring. I began writing an email thinking it’s the easiest way for both of us. I can get started doing what I want quicker and she can read it at her leisure and answer when she’s ready. Then I stopped myself. I am her mentor, for goodness sake! If I am going to resort to email and not a personal call, how are we going to build a strong, caring relationship which is integral to the mentoring process. I clicked the email closed, picked up the phone and talked to her.

Engaging in and developing the art of intimate conversation is new to me. It is difficult for me to reveal myself. Talking about the details of my life is not comfortable. Looking the other person in the eye, allowing tears to flow, laughter to well up, concern to show, none of this is comfortable for me. And yet, I crave sharing this kind of intimacy with my friends.

Last night in the intimate conversation, I made an announcement about completing something I had been struggling with for months. My companions heard me; they reacted to my announcement. But not like I had hoped they would. I was hurt. It’s hard to see from here, but perhaps, I thought, in this relationship I am not expected to struggle with this sort of thing. That did not soothe my hurt.

In the light of day, I have been analyzing what happened and I have concluded that it is hard to see from any one person’s perspective what’s happening in a conversation. Each participant brings expectations and needs to the table. When I arrived at the scene, I yearned for intimate conversation, for a place to reveal my struggle and my triumph, a place to receive affirmation and congratulations. With expectations and needs clouding my vision, it was hard for me to see from there.

So I am endeavoring to learn how to do this intimate thing. It’s hard to see from here, but I have made progress. Even though I left last night’s conversation with hurt feelings, I did reveal a struggle, what I am really doing and how I am really doing. Maybe next time, it will be easier for me to see from here, express myself better, make a better contribution to the intimacy, and open my hurt feelings to the balm of friendship.