Near and Dear

"Mom,is Joanna down there?" I heard when I answered the phone from my son, Greg.

"No, Greg, we're not at home. We're at Nardin," I told him. He was calling from upstairs at his house, thinking we were downstairs and calling down to us to locate his wife.

How funny, I thought. Thanks to cell phones, we're never out of reach, no matter how far away we are. It was Memorial Day week-end, and we had gotten out of the house to take a drive, ending up at a small town some 25 miles away. "I wonder when "Nardin Days" is," my husband had remarked, thinking of the heritage celebration held every year at this town that neighbors the one where we grew up.

"Oh," I exclaimed, suddenly remembering, "I think it's today!" Since we were already going in that direction we kept driving. "I hope it's not over!" I said, although it was three o'clock by then. Every year the date slips up on us and we miss it. We pulled into the little village to see a green, park-like space with chuck wagon, tables, and evidence of a celebration, but no people. We met one vehicle pulling a trailer on the way out.

"When is "Nardin Days"? my husband asked as he lowered his window and the truck stopped.

"It was today," the cowboy hat-wearing driver said aimiably, leaning out the window. "We were the first ones here and the last ones to leave." We noticed the sign on his trailer read, "HORSESHOEING".

After a friendly chat, they took their leave and we wandered around a bit. The little country church door stood open, and we went in, engulfed in history and memories. My parents had lived just catty-cornered across the street when I was first married, and my mother attended that church. After reading the names, many familiar, on the memorial bricks in front of a Heritage Center, and driving through the largely deserted town, we continued on our way.

A few nights earlier, we were attending highschool graduation ceremonies for our grandson, Adam. "Would everyone please stand for the Presentation of Colors and the Pledge of Allegiance," the voice over the loud speaker rang out. Just then my phone rang. I could see it was my daughter calling from Georgia, so I spoke into it as discreetly as possible.

"Mama, would you have Joanna text Allison and have her unlock her door that joins Corrin's room? Corrin is uneasy with the doors between them locked." These two granddaughters--cousins--were on a trip of a lifetime to Paris, France, with our son Jamie's family. I relayed the message to Allison's mother sitting in front of us. She misunderstood, thinking Corrin, 14, was locked out of her room and in the hall, but Allison's return text assured her that Corrin was safely in her room.

Next ensued a flurry of trans-Atlantic messages: from Corrin to her mother, urging her not to tell her Uncle Jamie, asleep in the next room, as she would be embarrassed to be thought immature; from Joanna to Allison to clarify the situation; and Allison to her mother. After a couple of conversations between Georgia and Ponca City, we got the news that the connecting door was left ajar, and the girls were finally sleeping peacefully, 5,000 miles away.

What a circuitous route to still a daughter's fears--from Paris to Atlanta, Atlanta to Oklahoma, Oklahoma to Paris, Atlanta to Paris, and finally, Georgia to Oklahoma-- so we could all rest easy, even though safety was just a wall away.

Sometimes we treat God the same way. We seek answers from here and there, forgetting that He is always available to hear our prayers. No need to text, call long-distance, tweet, twitter, or use a GPS. He is closer than the next room, even in our hearts.