The book I am reading again is captivating. Dogs that Know When Their Owners are Coming Home is crammed with stories and studies about the inexplicable abilities of animals. Cats who disappear before an appointment at the vets, lost labradors who navigate back roads to end up at the front door, and flocks who fly as one organism all defy the scientists hunting for an explanation. There are chapters about felines who awaken from a deep sleep moments before the ring when their favorite human phones. Horses become alert as their feeder gets in the truck ten miles down the road. Schools of fish respond simultaneously, far faster than any message we humans can convey through speaking or waving. 

 

One of the many ways researchers parse the information is to wonder whether a migrating tern is following directions, or has an inner knowing of where home is. Directions work well enough if there are no detours, or storms. But as anyone using a GPS knows, the original directions become moot if you have to go a different route. 

 

God is generous in helping us find our way home. Yet in recent years I have bumped up against barricades that make my old list of steps obsolete. The detour necessitates digging for a fresh set of milestones. What keeps me moving is an inner tug. The Destination, it turns out, never moved at all.