We crawl out of bed this morning, drunk with the after affects of the most amazing Greek food I have ever eaten.  While consuming quantities of garlic and feta isn’t exactly the wisest thing to do just before a home schooling conference, it is, nevertheless a practice that we managed to suffer through with great dignity last night. 

            Fay and I have come to the realization that wrong turns are going to be the norm on this trip.  Starting out headed east (at least the direction was right) we somehow manage to get off the Trans Canada onto the old highway to Moncton.  A sense of wrong direction is strong in both of us so it doesn’t surprise me when Fay says, “I don’t think we’re on the Trans Canada anymore.”  Sure enough, she is right.  So now what?  Off to our right is an Irving gas station and a man, coffee cup in hand, is striding across the parking lot for a caffeine refill.

            “Excuse me, sir?”  Fay calls out.  “Is the Trans Canada nearby?”

            The man, decked out in flannel and a battered ball cap looks one way down the street and then the other.  Upon gaining his bearings, he smiles.  “You go back over the bridge and look for the sign that says St John.”  St John?  But we’re going to Sussex.  “Yup.  Follow that and it’ll take you out to the Trans Canada toward Moncton.” 

            We gush our thanks, fill up the gas tank and head toward the St John sign.  Low and behold—he is right.  Following the directions we take the Sussex turn off after forty five minutes of driving and breathe a sigh of relief.  We’ll make it in time.  And then we see the sign.  ‘Sussex – 30 km’.  We’ll be late. 

            We arrive to a packed parking lot and are surprised to find that the vendor’s hall is still being set up.  Sometimes wrong turns can be right turns after all.  Because of our initial wrong turn we got a tank of gas for a cheaper price than what was posted along the Trans Canada, met a very nice, friendly local, and didn’t have to sit for an extra hour or so in the vendor hall twiddling our thumbs. 

We decide to abandon the hall for our fill up of Tim Horton’s coffee.  My brief moment of embarrassment comes as I try to dry my hands with the air dryer in the bathroom.  I hate air dryers.  They never work and you end up having to wipe your hands on your clothes anyway.  My daughter once had a wonderful solution.

            “Just wipe your hands on the bottom of your pant legs.”

            And so after tolerating a few minutes of fruitless hot air, I perform the mild calisthenics needed to wipe my hands on my pant legs, leave the bathroom and order my coffee as I wait for Fay to exit the washroom.  Thinking I just have to share my daughter’s ingenious solution with Fay, I explain what I had done.  Fay barks out a short laugh.

            “You could have just turned around and used the paper towel.”

            We set up our table at the conference and enjoy a morning of chatter with the patrons.  Fay decides after all that my daughter’s bathroom advice is a valuable piece of information when she discovers that the conference hall bathroom has neither paper towel nor air dryer. 

            As our day progresses we quickly learn that God has led us to this conference for the purpose of teaching us patience.  Fay is debating even that notion.  We are discovering that there is much more to writing than selling books—it is about connecting with people.  It’s a good thing to discover.  While we have done much connecting today the selling has been a bit on the shy side.  We keep blaming the economy—and the lack of heat in the gymnasium.  My solution is to turn the heat off everywhere else so the patrons come to the gym to get warm and they will be surprised to learn that there are vendors here.  If you check on Fay’s site you will see photos of the day posted there.  No, Fay is not standing in the middle of the gym practicing her liturgical dance nor is she being anointed by the Spirit.  She is searching for the heat vent.  And if you can’t find the picture it is because Fay is seeking revenge against my somewhat off beat sense of humour by refusing to post it.

            Fay and I decide on as we journey on our path home that perhaps we hadn’t heard God’s voice when we had made the decision to go to the conference.  This begins an in depth discussion about what it means to hear God’s voice and how it is heard.  In view of the circumstances that follow, I am a believer that God jockeys between simple things like road signs and unexplainable things like finding your way to your accommodations without having a clue where you are.  As we tour down the Trans Canada we are faced with a quandary—and a lesson.  Never base your directions on land marks when you are dealing with the Trans Canada.  We had.  Two giant bright blue water towers that straddle the highway were to be our beacon announcing our exit but as we approach a fork in the road offering a choice between Edmunston and Fredericton/Mirimachi we don’t see our blue sentinels.  What to do?  As I bomb down the pavement, my hand clamps onto Fay’s arm and I beg.  “Which turn do we take?  I don’t see the towers.”  Before she can answer we sail on past the Fredericton turn and click on north toward Edmunston.  Now who in their right mind takes Edmunston when they want Fredericton?  And especially when God has even given us a bold sign to show us the way.  So here we are heading out-of-province when the good Lord offers us a second chance—another Fredericton sign.  Who are we to question providence?  Like bold adventurers, we take the exit, absolutely oblivious to our whereabouts and watch in total amazement as God nudges the car, piece by piece into my brother’s drive.  God is good!

            So here we sit, recovering from yet another directionally challenged day and wondering what will cross our paths tomorrow.  Sheesh!  I’m ready for sleep.