I did something dangerous this week, for no other reason than I couldn’t figure out how to say no.

A young man in his early 20s approached me as I was leaving Kroger and asked me for a ride home. “It’s just up the road,” he said, pointing the way I’d be going anyway. He mentioned some cross streets, which meant nothing to me; but, again, he was pointing where I was heading and I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no. I thought about how much courage it must have taken to approach a stranger and ask for help, and said, “My car is just over here.”

It was 8:30 pm and I’d stopped to pick up ice cream as a treat for my boys after staying late at work for an evening meeting. I momentarily worried the ice cream might melt – it was still 92 degrees out, thanks to our recent heat wave – but felt silly worrying about my groceries. This fella had been walking home in this heat. My ice cream would survive.

He told me he’d just been released from the hospital and was trying to get home, but his newly diagnosed heart condition made him tired and he was grateful for a ride. I’m pretty certain hospitals don’t release you unless they have someone to release you to, but decided not to pick apart his story. I started driving and he kept pointing the way.

Long story significantly shortened, “just up the road” turned out to be a 30 minute drive. His lack of understanding exactly how far he was from home baffled me. He seemed to know just enough to get us to the next landmark, but not enough to clearly say “I live in Trimble County” (two counties away from mine). Maybe he thought I wouldn’t notice how much time was passing as he told me stories of juvenile boot camp, earning his GED while incarcerated, and his plans to move to Chicago, “because it looks like it has a lot to offer.”

I thought about my dad, who would absolutely have given this young man a ride (and probably all the cash in his wallet as well). I thought about my boys and how grateful I am they have people they could call if they needed a ride, no matter how far. I thought about all the ways this trip could end badly and what I’d do differently the next time I was asked for a ride.

At one point I said, “Son, there’s no way you could’ve walked home. Did you realize how far away you were?” He simply said, “No, ma’am,” then added, “but I live just around this curve.” I dropped him off at a trailer with no address and wished him well, then listened for the sound of banjos before I pulled back onto the highway. A thousand scenarios crossed my mind on the drive home, running the gamut from complete deception (of course he knew how far away he lived, but figured if he was honest no one in their right mind would agree to take him) to mental or physical illness that left him so he confused he honestly didn’t know where he was or how he ended up there.

In the end, it didn’t matter. He and I both made it safely home.

My 30 minute drive back to my side of Kentucky left me with plenty of time to think. Why do trips always feel longer when it’s not clear where you’re headed? I’ve been asking people to bear with me for years now, as I apologize for where I am and point vaguely at my future. I still can’t articulate exactly where I’m going, but trust I’ll know when I get there. Surely things will start to look familiar soon? Until then, I’ll be thankful for everyone willing to ride along with me. I’ll be grateful I’m making this journey in air-conditioned comfort, instead of walking on a 100-degree day. And I’ll try to enjoy the stories and the scenery, instead of wondering “how much longer?”