A cloud of Missouri dust billowed around us as the wedding shuttle pulled up to the barn. We were finally there. I quickly looked at my phone. Seven minutes to go…there’s still time…
Our driver opened the coach door and bounced down the steps as we all began to get up from our seats. A gust of hot midwestern June danced and swirled its way into the air conditioned cabin. The smell of freshly-cut grass filled my head as I rose. Looking out of my tinted window, I noticed our driver excitedly speaking with a smartly-dressed woman, who was nodding her head and pointing toward the rear of the bus. A familiar chill quickly ran down my spine, in spite of the heat, and I shivered. Two Time. Pay attention.
Suddenly, our driver turned and jogged briskly back to the shuttle, skipped up the stairs, dropped into his seat, closed the door, and started the engine. The intercom crackled to life as we all sat back down. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats.” came his muffled voice. “The good news is, we are in the right place. The bad news is, we are at the wrong barn. It appears there are two barns located on the property. We’ll have you at the right wedding shortly.”
Two barns…there are Two barns…
As children, we fabricate wondrous dreams established on the idealistic foundation that the most amazingly possible outcomes are “meant to be”. We drift off to sleep filled with notions of rescuing damsels, tricking imps, kissing soulmates, and living happily ever after. 
When the innocence of our youth drips away, though, our vision of “meant to be” similarly corrupts. Once retained solely for the pinnacle manifestations of True Love, “meant to be” instead devolves into that of a cruel, cynical joke. It’s pulled out of back pockets in comic relief, and used as a flighty response to the observation of unfortunate experiences. We place our arms sympathetically around each other’s shoulders and naively suggest that the pain maybe isn’t quite so painful because, for some indeterminable cosmic reason, it was “meant to be.” Sad.
There are times in our lives, however, when “meant to be” regains the throne of love it occupied in our earlier years. When even the toughest, most sarcastic human beings allow themselves enough emotional slack to open their hearts and let the light in, if just for a moment. Dances, parties, dorms, dates, apartments, weddings, conceptions — these events represent intersections of love throughout the paths of our lives. We travel roads, we navigate rivers, we cross oceans, we take to the sky, to meet each other, to embrace, to kiss.
While some may sneer at the idea that the outcomes stemming from these events are “meant to be”, it’s difficult to argue when you consider the forked branches of your own family tree and realize that the only reason you are reading this at all is that the lives of thousands upon thousands of people intersected in these exact ways. These special — sometimes once-in-a-lifetime — intersections lead these people to make the choices they did at the times they did, over and over again, in the name of love, back to the very beginning of civilization itself.
This realization that you, personally, are “meant to be” has the ability to smash one’s world-view like a Louisville Slugger swung hard at a hot fastball in the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded and two outs on the board. The honey-sweet infusion of pure “meant to be” tastes so good after all those years of ignorance that you immediately crave more and consciously seek it out. No longer a victim of the past, and fully responsible for your future, you spend the present zeroing-in on “meant to be” like a dowser hunting for water, your rods dipping and twitching as they lead you toward your next mind-blowing discovery.
The stories of family, friends, colleagues, and even random strangers become so interesting you can’t help but inquire, listen, and learn as much as you possibly can about each and every person you have the good fortune to encounter.
And so there I was on a hot evening in Missouri, riding a bus to the wedding of one of my best friends — a person whose life had once intersected mine with such impact that it altered my own trajectory by several orders of magnitude. There I was with my dowsing rods out, searching for a sign that this next intersection in his life was “meant to be”, hoping with all my heart I’d find the answer before it was too late.
Four minutes to go…come on, where are you?
We were climbing the hill to the second barn now. I opened up the map on my phone again and tried to tune in.
Think, think, think. No. Feel, feel, feel. What do I feel? I feel…roads. I feel…rivers. Roads. Rivers. Intersections. Not just intersections, but “forks”…”forks” on the map…zoom out…further out….How did Art get from Belgrade, Maine to Manhattan, Kansas, to meet Bailey from Kansas City, Missouri…he drove…roads…he took I-90, at least out of New England…how about rivers…the Kansas River flows from Manhattan to Kansas City…that doesn’t feel right…still too much noise…breathe…focus…Missouri…the Missouri River…the Missouri River flows through Kansas City…flows from its source…from mountains…which mountains…where is the source of the Missouri River…
And that’s when the air temperature around me dropped once again, and I knew I was finally onto something.
“You may not have any further information. A graph might have no labels on it, no values at all. It doesn’t matter, however, because when two lines cross…you know something’s going on.” — Professor John Stranlund, Resource Economics, University of Massachusetts at Amherst, 1996
As the bus lumbered closer to our destination, I thumbed the screen, sliding the map along the twisting path of the Missouri River, determined to find the source, a signal that it was “meant to be”. This is it. This HAS to be it.
I quickly followed the river’s winding curves northward, through Omaha, and Sioux City. After Sioux City I traveled deep into South Dakota, to a town named Chamberlain, where the Missouri River intersects with Interstate-90. Road. River. Intersection.
Bottom of the ninth, down by one…
Two lines crossing, but what was going on? Nothing… It didn’t feel right. It felt more like…like a signpost…like an indication that I was heading in the right direction. My Dad’s voice popped into my head: “Things come in Twos.” The bus pulled up to the barn, and I knew this was my last chance. Find the Two.
I hurried further north, past Pierre and into North Dakota. Through Bismarck, Lake Sakakawea, and Williston, where the Yellowstone River (Art…elk…) split away to the south, and headed further west into Montana, toward the Rocky Mountains. I wound past Fort Peck, followed the Missouri’s bend to the south, passed Great Falls, then Helena, and finally landed at the river’s source, a spot situated halfway between Butte and Bozeman. A spot named Three Forks. Forks… A spot where the Missouri River again intersects with Interstate-90:
Bases loaded, two outs, full count, and here comes the pitch — it’s a blazing fastball!
The world fell away. I could feel my heart beating in my throat. I stared at Three Forks for a moment, feeling, dowsing, and then carefully, ever-so carefully, so as not to miss a single detail, I panned the map slightly East, toward home. Toward home base. And there it was, as clear as day. Goosebumps. The Signal. The proof that yes, Art and Bailey were definitely, absolutely, and without a doubt, meant to be:
It’s a huge swing! The ball is the air! It’s going back, way back, WAY BACK, and it’s…GONE! It’s a Grand Slam! The home team wins! THE HOME TEAM WINS!
Grand Slam, indeed.
Detanglement 