Not Getting There

I have no excuse.

But I'll let you judge . . .

A woman in our church group, whom I had never met, had just given birth to a tiny, sweet preemie girl.

She had two other children.

And a husband.

I offered to surprise them with dinner.

An easy and painless way to help out.

I made a pot of soup.

Fresh rolls.

And a salad.

Packing everything into a box, I got into the truck and headed out.

Now, I should mention here that I live in a small town.

I've lived in this same small town for nearly a quarter of a century.

Yes, it has grown.

A lot.

But it is still my home town.

And it takes three minutes to drive from one end to the other.

On a busy day.

Twenty minutes later, I was still driving around, looking for this woman's address.

Finally, almost tearful with frustration, I broke down and called her, begging for directions.

“I'm right across the street from Beau Meadow School,” she said. “You can't miss the house. It's brightly lit and there is a 'For Sale' sign in the front yard.”

Now, in our town, that particular school is on what we call the 'ring road'.

It makes a circuit of the entire town.

Meandering through all four quadrants.

It is the quickest way to anywhere.

This woman was on it.

I live just off it.

Our houses were, quite literally, one minute apart.

I finally pulled up to the described house, shut off my truck and carried my now-tepid-meal to the front door.

And realized something.

Not only was this house almost within spitting distance of mine.

But it was a house my son and his family had recently outgrown and sold.

After having lived there for over three years.

I had been in and out of it for that entire time.

I knew it almost as well as I knew my own.

I knew where it was.

And how to get there.

And where to park.

I could have told anyone how to find it.

Only one thing was missing.

I had never noted the address.

See?

No excuse.