The morning after my car died I felt washed up: bloated, eyes puffy. Worry dragged me out of bed by my feet, urging me to figure out how I was going to get my daughter to the airport, a four-hour drive there and back. First things first; I called the garage and informed them of their botched job on my car. He offered his apologies, “if it was our fault.” I heard the implied loophole and immediately countered,
“Your people were the last ones to work on my car!” He offered to tow the car to the shop and said he’d call as soon as they had a look under the hood. That was good, but it did not solve my immediate problem. With renewed calm I asked him, “How do you propose I get my daughter to the Jacksonville airport? Her flight leaves in three hours.”
“I ... I …” Great, more stuttering. I waited, hoping. “I don’t know how to help you with that.” Of course not.
The cynical spirit was glowing around me as the clock kept ticking. My daughter called a couple friends, but I wasn’t holding my breath. Who is ready and willing to drive for four hours at a moment’s notice? No one—no surprise there. I decided to rent a car, adding the cost to my tally. Enterprise picks up their customers, unless they live outside city limits, which I did. I managed to get a ride into town to pick up a car, though not within the necessary time frame. I had to call to change my daughter’s flight. Cha-ching. The cost kept building.
On the way to the airport, I called the garage. “It could not have been anything we did,” the manager announced. “You’ve driven 1300 miles since we changed your oil. If it was our fault, the filter would have come off sooner.”
“So, it’s my fault?”
“Well, do you have any enemies?” His suggestion of sabotage triggered the spirits of guilt and shame. Does God count?
“No.” I tried to sound certain.
“I just can’t explain it then. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
A mystery that cannot be explained is either beyond man’s ability to reason or an act of God—though the former is often because of the latter. I determined the latter was true in this case. Still, I needed an earthly solution.
“What do you suggest I do?”
“You can call our insurance company.”
Ah, bureaucracy—the most reliable of outcomes for any problem needing an expedient solution. Days of phone tag, stacks of paperwork and the liberal use of expletives. Yes, I was going to pay dearly. Should I be ever be tempted to drink again, I would have this experience to remind me the cost of a bottle of wine.
I made it to the airport, said my good-byes with hugs and kisses, drove back, delivered the little one to her father, and returned home with little over an hour left before I had to go to work. I checked my messages. “Gill” from the insurance company had called, assuring me he’d be in the office until 4:00 p.m. and provided his number—long distance, of course. I had to add $10 to my phone card so I could make the call, and as expected, he was “away from his desk or on the phone” and would get back to me as soon as possible. It was 3:45 p.m. I sighed. “You’re going to make me sit with this anxiety all weekend aren’t you, Lord?” When four o’clock came and went, I had my answer.
I left a message for Mr. Gill, then resigned myself to pondering the mystery that would remain on my mind for the next thirty-six hours. Mrs. Faith waved. Who are you waving at?! I see you! My grumbling spirit couldn’t see Mr. Trust smiling as he stood right behind me. I changed my clothes and pulled back my hair for work.
