A knot tightened in my stomach as I stood next to our pickup in the crowded hospital parking lot. It was in a tight spot, and as I watched an endless stream of cars detour around us, I searched the faces of the passersby, praying fervently that God would send help our way.
It had been a long day. My husband, Don, was scheduled for shoulder replacement surgery the following day in St. Louis. We had set out from our small town in the Ozarks that morning before first light. We calculated that we could make it to St. Louis in 5 hours and arrive with plenty of time before the rush hour. We got our first indication of how well that plan would work not far from home. The clouds opened, and the rain came pouring down, beating like drumsticks on the top of the truck, creating small rivers on the pavement, and sending waterfalls gushing out from the tires. With limited visibility and our windshield wipers on full blast, we slowed to a crawl. Fortunately, our Tundra, with its new tires, seemed perfectly happy. It plowed through the water like a hippopotamus crossing the Nile.
Near St. Louis, 1-44 was closed due to flooding. A detour led us through the verdant green countryside along 2-lane back roads toward the city. We traveled in procession with the other vehicles that would usually have been on the interstate, including a slew of 18-wheelers strung together like boxcars on a railroad track. Our trip would have been quicker by pony express.
When we finally crawled into St. Louis, it was the rush hour, the cords of our necks were taut from tension, and we were numb with exhaustion. We located the hospital and pulled into the parking lot. All we wanted to do was find our hotel adjoining the hospital, grab a bite to eat and get some sleep. But first, there was the matter of parking. The crowded hospital parking lot looked daunting to a couple of country folk, but we had no idea what a trap it would become.
In our rural county, where most residents drive pickup trucks, the parking spaces provide ample room between the lines. However, in St. Louis, it was as if the fabric of the parking lot had been thrown into the dryer, shrinking the lines too tight to fit our wide truck. Don navigated the lot, spiraling up from one level to the next, searching for an empty spot that would accommodate us. He finally headed into one space between a black down-sized pickup and a Mini Cooper, which, next to our beast, looked more like a ladybug than a car.
With the truck halfway into the parking space, I clamored out to better look at the available room. But, basically, there wasn't any room at all. Moving forward one inch would squash the ladybug, and backing out would put a long gash on the black pickup, not to mention the Tundra. It was as if the jaws of a trap had closed around us.
Don had graduated at the top of his class with a master's degree in business and aced courses in math and language. Somehow, he missed the class that covered the finer points of large-vehicle maneuvering. I was no help, being even more challenged in that arena than he was. Half in and half out of the parking space, we felt paralyzed and reluctant to move. People in the car behind us assumed we were leaving and waited for our spot while a string of cars formed in their wake. I knew many drivers and passengers were on tight schedules, and I imagined them seething with impatience. I signaled for the first car to go around us and positioned myself to wave them on whenever the line stalled. Whenever the traffic started to thin out, 5 more cars appeared around the corner. We were hoping that when we made our move, it would be without a large audience. My mathematical husband was already mentally tallying up the damage to two vehicles and hoping it wasn't three. Externally, I was waving the traffic on, but inside I was praying as hard as I knew how.
One car paused in the procession, and through the window, a young man with a kind face mouthed the words, "Do you want help?" I nodded vigorously, hoping he could see the desperation in my eyes. He pulled over and parked his small car out of the line of traffic. Unfolding himself from the driver's seat, he walked toward us. He took charge of the situation, giving Don some slight steering corrections that made the trap spring open. In minutes, the truck was out, free and unscathed.
Years ago, in our country church, one of our friends used to sing a song entitled "My Lord will send a Moses." It relates how God sent Moses to lead the Israelites out of Egypt and how God does the same for us in our time of need.
After our rescue last week, Don asked the young man for his card. He shrugged as he replied, "It was nothing." Then he climbed into his car and drove away with a wave of his hand. We didn't even get his name. But we think there's a good chance that it starts with an M.
