An Unexpected Detour

Driving down interstate 70 on a Friday afternoon in July my wife and I weren’t expecting to hear the thump-thump-thumping of our engine in our tiny home on wheels, Hawthorne.

We were making our way home to Ohio after spending the last two weeks visiting family in beautiful Colorado Springs. As the noise grew increasingly louder, my only choice was to pull over to the side of the highway, where I discovered our beloved Hawthorne was in desperate need of repair. And just like that, we were introduced to the little town of Limon, Colorado.

As the tow truck driver, Justin, pulled into Tri-Valley Auto Repair and Diesel, he assured us we were in good hands. With the shop closed for the weekend, we settled in as best we could and decided to explore the town that would unexpectedly become our temporary home.

What we found was a quiet place with just a single, serene park, a modest grocery store, and a pace of life that seemed to invite us to slow down. It was the kind of town where everyone knows each other—and it was clear we didn’t quite belong. Yet somehow, that made the warmth we received even more impressive.

From the grocery store clerks to the owner of the quaint thrift shop and even the baristas at Ahimsa Coffee, the locals welcomed us. In their kindness, we found comfort—and in their simple gestures, a reminder of the goodness that still exists in unexpected places.

With nearly everything within walking distance, Limon is easy to navigate. But for my wife and I, coming from the constant motion and endless options of Cleveland, Ohio, it felt like stepping into another world.

Missing were the big-box stores, our fitness center, and a variety of restaurants at our fingertips. The stillness felt unsettling, but gradually we began to notice what we’d often overlooked in our busy lives.

Railroad Park became more than just a green space—it was a place to stretch out under the wide sky, to let the sun warm our skin, and to simply be present. The library offered us a reprieve from the summer heat and a quiet place to do some writing. And when I discovered the small Stop-n-Shop, I couldn’t help but smile—it shared the same name as the store where I had my first job in high school. In that moment, I felt a thread of connection between yesterday and today, and a gentle reminder that even in unknown places, something familiar can still find its way to you.

Despite the stress of facing extensive repairs on our van, there were signs all around us—quiet reassurances that everything would be okay.

Somehow, we had been led to this small town just off I-70, a place where we could rest our weary heads and feel safe. We found comfort at Our Lady of Victory Catholic church—which, by some strange coincidence, shared the same address as the last four numbers of my wife’s phone number.

On Monday, we received the news we’d been dreading: our engine would need to be replaced, leaving us without our home until the repairs were complete. And yet, even in that moment of desperation, we felt a sense of calm.

As you read this, my wife and I are safely back in Cleveland, Ohio—but we carry our memories of our time spent in Limon with us. The kindness of the people we met, the small signs that offered reassurance, and the ease with which we found exactly what we needed reminded us that sometimes, the unexpected detours hold the most meaning.

The next time we visit Colorado, we’ll be sure to stop into our “temporary home”—grateful for the town that turned a moment of crisis into a memory of peace.

Thank you, Limon, for your warmth, your welcome, and your quiet grace.

Timothy Kalista