My Friend Iris

I flipped the switch and waited patiently for her comforting presence. Letters appeared on the screen as she prepared her grand entrance. Oh, the sweetness of her voice. I cradled the device in the palm of my hands like a small Bible. "Drive 2.4 miles, then turn right." I glanced at my husband's jaw, the tightness, the distrust causing his eyes to squint. A short distance prior to the exit, I said, using my best imitation, "o.3 miles, then turn right." His face remained stony. "Turn right!" she said. As our car sped past the off ramp, my heart palpitated furiously. "She didn't give us enough notice!" I whined. "Recalculating,"she intoned. My eyes rolled. "Drive 3.4 miles, then turn left." I got so mad at her that I shut my eyes against the crimson red and sulfur leaves dappling the scenery as we whizzed by. Unlike my husband, I had placed a small amount of faith in Iris. Even though she messed up sometimes, causing us to drive miles out of the way, or asking us politely to turn down a gravel driveway, I held her tight. Plus, I'm a lousy co-pilot. Once, with a pert voice, she advised us to make a right hand turn on a freeway, which, had we obeyed, would have smashed our car into the guard-rail. I still gave her every chance in the world. Maybe that's how God sees us humans. I wonder how many times I've traveled in the wrong direction and he looks down at me, smiles, and with supernatural patience in his tone says, "Recalculating." Then, if I am listening, I turn directions, and travel the opposite way, the way that offers the beautiful scenery. I named her Iris because I thought it sounded sophisticated and smart. We did get to our destination, and my husbands jaw eventually loosened. The view was glorious.