Unreasonable Reasons

Do you believe everything happens for a reason? Do you believe sometimes that reason is simply that people do stupid things? Judge for yourself.

Our trip had been in the works for a year. A high school reunion in the beautiful Black Hills of South Dakota in October. We signed up. Booked time off. Got all our ducks in a row. Packed. Reserved a room in Pierre for Thursday night. Left our house around 9:00 a.m., anticipating a ten-hour drive.

More than two hours later, we were filling with gas in Boissevain, twenty minutes from the border, when I remembered. My passport still sat in my dresser drawer.

I am not normally forgetful. Hubby hadn’t asked, “Got your passport?” (Though I suspect he will next time.) He’d seen no reason to ask because he knew my track record. I’m a list-maker, writing down and crossing off everything. Yet somehow, my passport hadn’t crossed my mind. Not once.

“He’s going to kill me,” I thought.

Yet the only naughty word I heard came from my own mouth.

We turned around and headed for home. Though I was kicking myself for such a dumb mistake, Hubby was nothing but gracious. “I can’t be mad,” he said. “This is so unusual, it seems like there must be some other reason we’re supposed to go home.”

I’d had the same thought.

We began texting our son and a few friends to see if anyone was free to go to our house, find my passport, and meet us somewhere to save at least some time. Despite our offer of a tank of gas, no one could, convincing us even more that we were meant to go home. Eventually, we reached the point where it made no difference. We’d be driving all the way home, our brains dialed to high alert. Was our house on fire? Had something happened to one of our loved ones?

We pulled into town. “Should we stop for the mail?” Hubby asked.

“Might as well,” I said.

He pulled up to the post office, went inside, and returned with a Compassion catalogue which he tossed into my lap. “Well, it’s not about the mail.”

A fire truck, siren blaring, went by. Instead of turning toward our place, though, it kept going. “Well, it’s not about our house on fire,” I said.

When we pulled into our driveway, everything appeared as we’d left it. Nothing suspicious inside.

We had not, however, heard from our son, who typically responds in minutes. Two hours had passed since we’d begun texting and calling. Was he the reason we’d come back? What if he was in trouble? Knowing we wouldn’t relax if we headed for the U.S., we decided to drive east to Elie so we could check on him. Worst case scenario, we’d feel like foolish helicopter parents and add yet another unnecessary hour to our trip.

As I climbed into the car, my phone rang. It was our son. Everything was fine.

We took a different route south and spent the night in Jamestown, relieved when the hotel in Pierre granted a full refund but still wondering, “what was THAT all about?”

We may never know. We did hear about torrential rainfall in western South Dakota, and we saw some of its results when we arrived the following afternoon. Maybe it was about that. Maybe we missed an accident somewhere. Maybe it was simply human forgetfulness. Not everything has to be “about” something. Part of living by faith means you live with these kinds of questions and look for significance behind every snag. 

One thing I do know. My husband’s gracious response to my costly blunder spoke volumes. This gentle reminder of God’s work in his life and in our relationship, knowing how I’d have reacted had the tables been turned, left me feeling humbled, loved, and safe.

Maybe that’s all it needed to be about.

Hubby and Me near Rapid City, SD