I looked out the plane window, somewhere over Illinois I think. There was a river below us, or a creek. It certainly wasn’t a canal. It was snaky, curled, switchbacks of water.

There were roads in view, a clean grid. And square fields. and rows. But there was a river wandering through, forcing the edges of the fields to bend, the roads to bridge.

My day had a clean grid. There were lines on the square field of my itinerary. But the night before a bird hit the engine of a plane. The night before the temperature and humidity combined to create clouds on the ground. The night before one last stress happened to some part on a plane. So our plane sat in Fort Wayne waiting for a mechanic to observe the engine and a breeze clear the fog. And one plane had to be replaced with another in Chicago.

And my schedule and stomach were as twisted as the river outside the window as I finally flew over Illinois.

But I started my day and the planning for the trip with conversation. I had talked with God about plans, about words, about relationships. I had asked for wisdom, for peace, for clarity.

And I got most of the morning hours with a friend I seldom see, ask our schedules converged sitting in the airports. And the planes arrived, and so did the words, and so did conversations.

I won’t take the metaphor too far. I know we can control rivers, shape them, straighten them. Far more than any one of us can straighten all that happens to us. But I was challenged by the twists to reconsider how much I worried about the grid, and how much I could talk to God about peace while navigating the river.