I remember it clearly. I told my husband that my car seemed odd. It seemed as though it was not easy to control, that something was wrong. He looked underneath the car, My Little Orange Match Box real life car. He said, “No, it’s fine, don’t worry,” giving me that look as if to say, geez don’t worry so much. I said okay and I asked if he would watch my two younger boys. He said, “Okay. But be back right after class; I have things to do at the bowmen’s club.” I said, “Okay,” happy to know my children would be okay and that I could get there quickly so nothing would happen to them.
I got out of class, drove home at least seventy miles per hour down the highway, into my home town, down the familiar dirt road I had driven so many times before. My car never showing me any more signs of anything that would go wrong. All of a sudden, it wouldn’t turn; the wheel wouldn’t turn. “Oh dear,” I said. I thought to myself, I will have to get out and see why the wheel won’t turn. I got out and there it was: my front left tire was turned way inward; it looked like a broken match box wheel. You know when the kids tamper with them too much they kind break but not break right off? It was something I will never forget. I pondered a bit, knew I couldn’t drive it, so I walked about fifty yards or so up the dirt road to get my boys.
That was the day I knew God was with me on that ride to pick up my children. He got me where they were, and made sure nothing happened to me on the highway. Blessed are the mothers, for they go in blind faith to do the best that they can.
