When You're All Over the Map

I’m a miserable map-reader. 


I suppose that’s why there’s Siri. 

But she’s not always helpful to me and I get annoyed with her. 

Just the other day when I asked her to take me home, she scolded me in a cheeky tone saying, “Valerie, I don’t know where home is.”  

{I thought Siri should already know where I live since she spends a lot of time with me at home, but she impertinently pointed out that I hadn't entered my home address in my phone settings.}


So when I was in Rome, I kept my phone use to a minimum and instead relied on my mother’s navigational expertise.

Now she is a master map-reader. 

My mother has logged years of navigating our family vacations, studying the map in the front seat of the car. She'd advise my dad on the best routes to take, as every summer while I was growing up we wound our way south from Pittsburgh to the beaches of Florida.

So if she’s with me on a trip I don't worry about looking at a map, confident she'll get us where we need to go.

But Rome’s streets were all Greek to her. 

We’d optimistically head toward one of Rome’s neighborhoods and before we knew it, we were curving around an ancient building or ducking down an alley or looking up a steep flight of steps. 

We wondered where in the world were we?

We'd walk another block looking for landmarks only to be met with the name of a street {often abbreviated} we couldn’t seem to locate on our map. 

By the end of the trip my mother was so rattled by the apparent loss of her navigational skills that she was reluctant to venture out.

Which resulted in the night we opted for take-out at Pasta Chef in our neighborhood  -- rated #1 on Trip Advisor -- and dined on antipasto salad and lasagna in the dining room of our apartment, as I'd imagine the Romans must do. 

{Which also proves that losing your way is sometimes rather delicious.}

Frequently we were surprised as we headed out, armed with maps and cameras, sure we were walking toward the Forum only to find ourselves confronted with the Colosseum instead.

We were constantly asking how'd we end up here?

But mostly we were mystified and thought maybe our difficulties with navigating Rome were because official signage for tourists is non-existent.

But unofficial signage  -- in the form of graffiti -- is abundant and was quite useful in helping us find the famous Trevi Fountain. 

After walking for 45 minutes, we spotted the words Trevi with an arrow, sprayed in red paint on the side of a building.

{At least one past traveler was thinking of his fellow tourists and was kind enough to paint -- and point --the way.}

And it's possible we were a bit exasperating to our fellow tour-group-goers, who brushed off our worrisome questions when we asked for directions to the Spanish Steps.

Oh it's easy to find, they told us {all of them Rome-returners}, just follow the crowds.

Surely everyone in Rome couldn't be headed to the Spanish Steps, could they? 

But when we finally reached the famous set of 135 steps, maybe they were right, for it seemed as if half the world were there, basking in the sun.

Ironically, the entire time we were in Rome, we had what we needed.

Maps. 

Several of them. 

In brilliant color, detailing the neighborhoods of Rome, and we still couldn’t find our way.

And yet, isn't that what we often want for our lives?

We want directions mapped out for us. Exact instructions for life's major choices.

We want to know the plans God has for us, what work we should do, who we should marry, where we should live. 

We ask God for clarity for difficult decisions. We pray for a big bright spotlight to show us the way we should go. 

But we rarely get those things. Instead he gives us his presence.

He promises to go with us, wherever it is that we happen to go.

Maybe instead of trying to map out our course and look so doggedly for signs, we might take a look backwards. And notice how far God has already brought us.

We might realize that we've navigated obstacles and pushed through confusion and persevered despite a thousand questions.

We might see that we've ended up in a tight spot, encountered a dead end, retraced our steps and recharted our course.

Maybe finding our way isn't part of the journey. 

It is the journey.

And could it be how we find our way to God? 

In the Vatican's Gallery of Maps, I gazed at vivid frescoes of Italy painted on the walls during the sixteenth century. 

It was startling to see how accurate the map-makers were as they depicted mountains and land and sea long before Siri or satellites. 

As I made my way through the long corridor of symbols and coordinates and arrows, trying to make sense of the maps, I didn't realize that just ahead was what I had long been waiting for.

The map room is a prelude to the Sistine Chapel. 

It's the last stop on the long journey through the halls of the Vatican to reach the historic, magnificent art of Michelangelo painted on the chapel's ceiling.

Maybe we don't realize just how close we are.

To finding God’s will; working out his purposes; living the life he created us to live.

Maybe we're already there.

So with this trip to Rome, my mother has declared herself retired from map-reading and told me to use Siri instead.

But I'm not so sure I agree with her.

Her map-reading skills took us all the way to St. Peter’s Basilica at the Vatican. 

Which is, after all {when you take a look at the map}, quite a long way from Pittsburgh.

I'm having coffee with my friends at Holley Gerth's place at Coffee for your Heart.