When we lived in California the trip was double that, so we only did it a few times. But somehow the age of my body and our cars has made me more reluctant to take long trips. We had engine trouble two different Christmases en route to the Poconos, and as many times crossing Pennsylvania, so caution has seeped in where bravado once ruled. 

Recently my little inner voice asked me to go to upstate New York to support a young mother. I felt confident about what I would do once I got there, but the trip had me nervous. John set up the Google maps on my phone, so directions should be a snap. Still the car was old enough to drink in New Jersey. I went to kiss John goodbye when he was still in bed.

"Which car are you taking?" he asked. 

"Frodo, so you can have Anna. Think he'll make it ok?"

"Go ahead and take the van," he offered generously. My anxiety sliced in half with the thought of a car that was younger than the twins. I kissed him again.

My phone cheerfully told me what to do and when, but five hours is a drain even when you are not in farmland far from a cell tower. The number in the upper right corner for remaining battery was going down faster than the one on the left for minutes until arrival. The rain made the drive dreary, and sometimes the phone said "No service". My fertile imagination leaped on the possibilities for mishap. What if I had no GPS? I wouldn't be able to call either. There were no places of business between the expanse of pasture. Surely I would be stranded, hungry and helpless. 

I stopped to dim the screen, a trick my son told me reduces the drain on the battery, and it held on to the last few fragments of red until the voice calmly announced "Arriving at destination. On right." 

The time with their family slipped by as peacefully as the stream beside their farmhouse, feeding wild blueberries to a darling baby and singing her to sleep. Then it was time to leave.

Anxiety had no foothold. Even if the GPS conked out half way I knew the way from there. The sky was sunny, and I cranked up the music. I sang even louder as I passed the gas station where we had sat for four hours the time the car was getting fixed. 

I thought about how it felt to care for a baby when I was fifty six, as compared to when I was twenty six. Years ago the unknown terrain kept me wondering, and dashing to books for reassurance. I doubted my ability, and worried about ruining my children's chances for happiness by feeding them the wrong food or neglecting an educational opportunity. Every corner was unknown. 

But caring for a sweet little girl now felt like coming home. Besides, my GPS needs no cell tower. God has universal reception.