The End of the Night of Miracles

 

 

I hate driving after dark. I don’t like driving any car except my own. And I don’t like driving on unfamiliar roads. Yet, here I was, driving a rental car between Columbus, Georgia and the Atlanta airport at midnight so that I could pick up my husband, whose flight was going to land at one in the morning.

Earlier in the day I had been a little ticked at my dear husband. The work commitment that had kept him from coming with me a day earlier had miraculously disappeared, and while I was glad that he would be able to see our son graduate from the Army’s Ranger School, I wasn’t happy to spend three hours of my short visit driving back and forth on an unknown road in an unknown car. At least, I had thought, our son had returned to base for the night, so I wasn’t losing time with him.

But by the time I left Columbus, there wasn’t any room in my heart for annoyance. A series of miracles, all small enough that they might have been mistaken for coincidences had they not been stacked up one after the other like dominoes, had left my heart filled with gratitude and wonder. My son’s car had died, but it had done so in a restaurant parking lot instead of on a lonely, dark highway. Two strangers had helped him push it into a parking space. We’d driven in two cars, so my son wouldn’t return to base late. A call to AAA had brought Roy, a gentle giant of a tow truck driver who’d helped me get the broken-down car to a repair shop, then had insisted on driving me back to my hotel. Roy had warned me about dangerous truck stops and deer on the road, and sent me on my way with a prayer for my safety. I drove along singing hymns and praise songs and offering up long, rambling prayers of praise.

God wasn’t my only guide on the road that night. In her flat monotone, the Google Maps voice informed me about every upcoming turn. Still, the Atlanta airport is a huge facility, with a north and south terminal. I read every sign twice, worried that I’d end up in a permanent holding pattern around the airport without ever finding the right place to park. The signage seemed clear, and it agreed with Ms. Maps. I felt confident as I drove my car towards the parking lot’s automatic ticket booth.

Until I reached out to push the button, where the word INTERNATIONAL was written across the top of the machine. My heart lurched. How had I arrived at the wrong parking area? What was I to do? I looked in the rear view mirror. Although I saw no traffic behind me, the thought of backing down a one-way ramp seemed suicidal. The only way to go, I decided, was forward: through the multistory parking garage and out the other side, where I could explain that I’d made a mistake. Hopefully, they’d see that I’d spent mere minutes in the lot and wouldn’t charge me. Maybe they’d guide me to the right lot, since Ms. Maps had failed me.

“I blew it,” I said as I handed the attendant my ticket. “I meant to park in domestic.”

The man looked over the top of his glasses at me. “This is the domestic lot,” he said.

“I’m picking up someone who’s coming in on Southwest,” I said.

He nodded. “Then you’re in the right place.”

For the second time that night I looked in the rearview mirror and considered driving in reverse. “Can I just back into the lot, then?”

The attendant shook his head. “Can’t go back in. But you can just park here, right next to the booth. I’ll watch your car for you.” Enough had happened already that day that I didn’t question the man. I thanked him for his kindness, parked the car, and walked into the terminal.

When my husband arrived, he got an earful about the smoking clutch, the giant angel named Roy, and my parking lot confusion. He smiled. He’s used to me parking in odd places. But when we got back to the car, it was not alone. A car was parked next to ours, and in it was a crying woman.

“Can you help me?” she asked. I’ve lost my credit card somewhere, and I’ve called home, but no one is answering. They won’t let me leave the lot unless I pay.” By now it was 2 am, and the woman figured that those at home had their phones on silence. She offered to give us her name, number and address, but my husband just smiled and paid her ticket.

“This one’s for Roy,” he said.

We finally made it to our hotel at 3 am, then had to get up at 6 to make it to graduation. I may have been running on fumes the next day, but they were good fumes.

It wasn’t until after graduation that the repair shop called with the bad news that repairs on my son’s car cost more than the value of the car, but that’s when I realized the final blessing of the weekend; my husband is good at many things, but he is the best negotiator I’ve ever known. That afternoon he and our son sat in two different dealerships and discussed buying a new car. By the time we flew home, my son had learned the fine art of the deal, and was the owner of a new car.

People helped us. We helped people. I am not sure if I know what the higher purpose was that weekend, but I am glad that I played a part in it all. God’s ways are mysterious. They may seem like mere coincidence. But I believe something far greater was at work on that night of miracles.

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More miracles

 

I sat in the restaurant in Columbus, Georgia, nervously wolfing my salad and looking for a sign that the tow truck had arrived in the dark parking lot. If he got back to Ft. Benning in time, my son John would graduate from Ranger School the next day. Tough luck that his clutch had burned out just as he pulled into the restaurant parking lot.

I kept telling myself that all would be well. Our party of four had come in two cars, so I could stay and take care of John’s car while the others drove him back. I’d taken rides in a tow truck before, but always in my hometown, where I knew where to go and what to do. Even there, not all the drivers had been pleasant men. One had been downright snarly, nasty. I hoped I wouldn’t get someone like that again, especially here, where I didn’t know my way around.

The man who climbed down from the cab of the tow truck was a big, big man: very tall and very wide. His skin was so dark that it was hard to distinguish his features. I admit that my heart lurched. By the dim overhead light I read the name embroidered on his shirt. Roy. I smiled and thanked Roy for coming. Roy smiled back, and with that smile and a few gentle words, all my fears evaporated.

Several people came out of the restaurant as Roy attached chains to the underside of the car. One of them, obviously drunk, shouted racist and disparaging things. Roy either didn’t hear or ignored the man. Several people offered to give me a ride. One couple told me it wasn’t safe for a white woman to ride in a tow truck with a black driver. I assured them I didn’t need their help, clambered into the cab, and off we went.

Talking with Roy was easy. I told him that I was a teacher, and he shared that his son had dyslexia. We discussed education, parenting strategies, and how hard it was to find the right school for a boy with special needs. Roy praised God for giving him a wife who was patient and level headed. He called his son, a 14-year-old freshman football player, a big, scary-looking kid who was really a teddy bear. It was clear that this man cared deeply about his God and his family, and that the son took after the father.

At the dealership, Roy helped me fill out the information on the envelope for the nighttime key drop. I asked for the number for the local taxi service, but he insisted on driving me back to the hotel himself. As we pulled up, he told me that I could put my feet up and rest: my night of troubles was over.

I told him I had no time to relax. My husband’s schedule had cleared, and he was able to make it to graduation. I was going to grab a cup of coffee, then make the hour and a half drive to the Atlanta airport to meet him when he landed at 1 am. Roy’s smile faded. He warned me to drive in the left lane because deer came out at night. He also told me which exits were safe for a woman alone at night and which were not.  

And then we prayed together. Roy asked the Lord to protect me on my drive, and I asked for guidance for Roy’s son’s reading problems. Roy gave me his number and made me promise that I’d call the next day. He wanted to make sure I made it back safely, and he offered to tow my son’s car to another mechanic if the dealership’s estimate was too high.

I drove all the way to Atlanta singing hymns and praising God for bringing me the biggest, scariest looking angel ever. I saw deer – both alive and dead – on the drive, but because of Roy’s advice, I didn’t hit any of them.

Little did I know there were more miracles to come that night.

Night of Miracles

 

 

I was in Columbus, Georgia a couple of weeks ago to attend my son John’s graduation from Army Ranger School. The night before graduation, he got a pass to have dinner with his girlfriend Deanna, his girlfriend’s mother Carolyn, and me. Later that evening I would drive the hour and a half to Atlanta to pick up my husband Hank, whose schedule had changed, allowing him to grab a flight that came in at one in the morning.

We drove to a restaurant in two separate cars, the mothers in one, and the lovers in the other. As Carolyn pulled into a parking space, I noticed two men standing on the berm in front of us. They were looking toward where our young ones had parked, and they wore horrified looks on their faces. My heart lurched.
I jumped out of the car and ran. John’s car was stopped halfway into the parking space. Smoke billowed from the engine, which made a high, squealing sound. We tried pushing the car into the space, but the clutch was stuck down and the car refused to budge. The two men from the berm joined us. “Looks like your clutched is cooked,” one said. They suggested we try pushing it again. With their help, it slid into place. Before we could thank them, the men went their way.

We looked at our watches and considered our situation. If John was even one minute late returning to base he wouldn’t graduate, and ninety days of sweat and toil would have been wasted. I pulled out my AAA card, which I have carried ever since that fateful day 29 years ago when I locked my keys, my grocieries (including ice cream!) and worst of all, my baby into the car on day when the temperature had topped 100°. AAA had never failed to get me out of a jam. I had to depend on them now.

We ordered our food, then called AAA, who assured us that a tow truck would arrive in 45 minutes. As I ate, I thought what a blessing it was that we’d chosen to drive two cars so that Carolyn and Deanna could drive John back while I got his car to the dealership where he got it serviced, and what a blessing my AAA membership was. I thanked God for the two kind men who seemed to have been standing on that berm, waiting for us to need their help.

It seemed like God was in control and everything was going to work out fine, but I couldn’t help eating my food with one eye gazing out the window, waiting for the truck and wondering what would happen next. What did happen surprised me.

To be continued . . .