83 B

My family recently made the trek north to attend a wedding, and logistics required meeting my son along the way. We left his car in a hotel parking lot before continuing on our way, and I remembered the exit, 83 B, so we could return to his car on Sunday. The problem came when we took the exit and found nothing familiar - no hotel, no car, nothing we remembered from our earlier rendezvous. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and each of us tried to solve the problem. An hour and a half later we found the car, but it was nowhere near where we thought it was. The exit was 92, not 83 B.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out how I got the exit numbers so wrong. I can see no misleading connection between the two numbers, and yet I was so certain I as right. While it remains a mystery to me, the experience points to something I hope I’ll remember in the future: don’t trust certainty.

Exits on highways are nothing to the other things we feel certain about: I’m supposed to be a doctor, lawyer, or priest . . . my father is perfect . . . financial security is all I need to be happy . . . my husband/wife loves me . . . my child would never do that.

So often we hold onto ideas as if they are made of stone and guide our lives accordingly. They provide security in an unsteady and confusing world. When something happens that turns those stones to dust, we’re left baffled, confused, and scared. “If that isn’t true,” we ponder, “then what is?” It’s as if the earth shakes and there’s nothing onto which we can grasp.

As awful as such moments are, there’s also a new freedom to be found as the dust swirls in the breeze. We find a new humility and acceptance that can literally make us breathe, and live, easier. When it comes to the life of faith, I am trying to hold loosely the things I believe. The landscape of life is beyond my full comprehension, and to claim otherwise is to search for stones. Yes, stones provide spiritual comfort, but they also keep me from flying.