Orange-and-white barrels. Reflective, telescoping cylinders of polywhatchalene delineating sections of road under repair. High visibility, regular spacing and occasional dents are their trademarks. But appearances can be deceiving; they are not automotive slalom gates. Trust me.

The barrels are often concomitant to flag men, right? Only, the flag men are just as often women, and they rarely sport flags, right? They have signs: SLOW, STOP, DUCK, INCOMING, whatever...(except, of course, on the Interstate Highway System, where flags are still de rigeur: red, green, checkered and yellow caution).

There's something fundamentally amiss with a world in which all major road repairs occur during the peak driving season. It smacks of a perverse sense of humor, something akin to no-fault insurance, banking and duckbilled platypuses. Oh, well, at least God designed the platypus on purpose. I think.

Road repairs mean detours. Now, detours can be indicated a number of ways. Affluent areas may find a large flashing neon sign regaling drivers with details of an imminent route departure, complete with suggested alternate routes and tips on restaurants and hotels. Less fortunate neighborhoods are adequately served by a large sign in vibrantly contrasting orange and black. Where I live you know you've reached the detour when all four tires blow out at once.

Detours take us places we don't necessarily want to go. Places we've never thought much about. Places we wouldn't dream of going (unless just prior to bedtime we'd consumed immoderate quantities of anchovy pizza topped with horseradish, whipped cream and peanut butter).

Not all detours are on roadways. And not all come during the prime driving months. They'll catch you any time of day, any season of the year. Divorce. Death. Injury. Illness. Failure. Car problems. Kids. Parents. In-laws. Outlaws. Late bills. Unpaid bills. Errant bills. Taxes. An employee. The boss. The boss's secretary. Notre Dame football. All those insufferable departures from our carefully-laid plans ganging merrily and unmercifully aft aglee.

Sometimes we see their approach in the distance; frequently, just in the nick of time. Occassionally, not until we're stranded in the middle of the night with four flats.

I do not relish detours, nor do I suffer them gladly. I have an abiding conviction that I have better things to do with my time.

Perhaps that's the point. Maybe that's part of the picture. Possibly life's side trips teach me there is something - Someone - greater. Maybe I don't have everything sorted out and tied together quite as neatly as I thought. Perhaps I don't see as fully or as clearly as I thought I did. Perchance I have still more to learn, and I will only learn it away from my planned itinerary.

It could be the main lesson is this: God is Lord not only of the well-planned, focused and deliberate steps of my life; God rules over all creation. Even when my life is in chaos, Thou art there. Wherever I go, I will find Thee.

Praised be the God of shattered dreams and hopes undone. Praised be the God who knows our pain. Praised be the God of detours.