Driving Miss Lisa
If my GPS system could talk (well, really talk, other than telling me, "take the next right turn" and "make a U-turn, if possible," she would have had a lot to say to me the other day.
"Why are you entering that address?" she would have asked.
"Because, Kitten, it's where we're going today."
Kitten is the name of my navigation system, or sometimes my whole van, depending on the situation. She was named on her inaugural out-of-town journey to Hilton Head Island in October of 2006 with my friends, Cindy and Lisa. A talking girl mini-van, named after Kit, the car on Knight Rider.
"I don't want to go there," I suspect Kitten would have told me.
"You and me both, Kitty."
I pushed all the buttons to direct us to Euclid and 93rd Street in downtown Cleveland.
"This is not where you go with Lisa," she must have been thinking. "You go to Target and to the schools and to Perkins. Why are you going here? Don't go here."
"I know," I told Kitten in my head. "I know. But we have to. Lisa has cancer. It's my turn to drive her to the clinic for her treatment."
The thought stopped Kitten from asking anymore questions in my head.
And we headed north on the highway.
"Kitten knows where she's going," said Lisa from the passenger seat. "She's a good van."
"She is," I said. Lisa didn't know that Kitten was mad and sad and dragging her wheels. Kitten will never tell her.
We arrived at the clinic without much more chat from Kitten. A turn direction here, a suggestion there. In the parking garage, Kitten went crazy. Destination. Destination! Destination!!!!
"I know, Kitten. We hear you! We're here."
"Thank you, Kitty," said Lisa.
Kitty was quiet. She had brought us safely into the parking garage, and would await further instruction.
Sometimes we find ourselves going places we never thought we would go. Sometimes we need guidance from above, be it a satellite, or something bigger. Sometimes we talk to inanimate objects to blame our inner voices on something other than complete craziness. The small journeys we take within this, our biggest journey, can be overwhelming. And they can be wonderful. To quote my friend Cindy: "This is a marathon, and every day is a tiny race."
Thank you Kitten, for guiding me and Lisa safely that day. And thank you, God, for guiding me and Lisa, and all who surround her, safely that day. And on this, the bigger journey.
"Why are you entering that address?" she would have asked.
"Because, Kitten, it's where we're going today."
Kitten is the name of my navigation system, or sometimes my whole van, depending on the situation. She was named on her inaugural out-of-town journey to Hilton Head Island in October of 2006 with my friends, Cindy and Lisa. A talking girl mini-van, named after Kit, the car on Knight Rider.
"I don't want to go there," I suspect Kitten would have told me.
"You and me both, Kitty."
I pushed all the buttons to direct us to Euclid and 93rd Street in downtown Cleveland.
"This is not where you go with Lisa," she must have been thinking. "You go to Target and to the schools and to Perkins. Why are you going here? Don't go here."
"I know," I told Kitten in my head. "I know. But we have to. Lisa has cancer. It's my turn to drive her to the clinic for her treatment."
The thought stopped Kitten from asking anymore questions in my head.
And we headed north on the highway.
"Kitten knows where she's going," said Lisa from the passenger seat. "She's a good van."
"She is," I said. Lisa didn't know that Kitten was mad and sad and dragging her wheels. Kitten will never tell her.
We arrived at the clinic without much more chat from Kitten. A turn direction here, a suggestion there. In the parking garage, Kitten went crazy. Destination. Destination! Destination!!!!
"I know, Kitten. We hear you! We're here."
"Thank you, Kitty," said Lisa.
Kitty was quiet. She had brought us safely into the parking garage, and would await further instruction.
Sometimes we find ourselves going places we never thought we would go. Sometimes we need guidance from above, be it a satellite, or something bigger. Sometimes we talk to inanimate objects to blame our inner voices on something other than complete craziness. The small journeys we take within this, our biggest journey, can be overwhelming. And they can be wonderful. To quote my friend Cindy: "This is a marathon, and every day is a tiny race."
Thank you Kitten, for guiding me and Lisa safely that day. And thank you, God, for guiding me and Lisa, and all who surround her, safely that day. And on this, the bigger journey.
Thank you. For Driving Miss Lisa and for EVERY day. xoxo
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Anytime, sister. Anything. xxoo
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You forgot to mention how Kitten tried to turn around and take us back to Beachwood Mall.
'Recalculate' 'Recalculate'
'Head back to Nordstrom'
'Or at the very least, Crate and Barrel'
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How could I forget??
If only she would have taken us back to Origins-- I could have avoided the whole blush escapade.
Kitten. . .Recalculate and help me avoid make-up disasters in the future
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Wow, I am blown away by your message today, Christy. Lisa is in a place that scares me. Having you and Cindy beside her, bringing her comfort and making her world not so scarey is fabulous! We all need to be the soft, warm and fuzzy comfort for others whose world is cold and prickly right now. You rock!!!!
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beautiful!
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Beautifully written! Lisa is lucky to have you on her team during this challenge - you have a gift of always knowing the right thing to say! Sending all involved prayers and good wishes for a speedy return to good health and normalcy
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Christy, this is so right on - and write on too! This journey is NOT one we want to take - but you and Cindy are so up for it. I know you will be her treasure and her gift. God is working with you on this! SueAnn
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This is really, really good, Christy! A nice message written in a clever, breezy style that's fun to read. I pray that your friend, Lisa, can fight off her cancer. -- Anne Gallagher
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