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God Broke My Car

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My boyfriend and I decided to celebrate our two-year anniversary by going camping. Driving down the highway, a loud bang sounded, shaking our vehicle. Cody clutched the wheel with all his strength.

“We’ve lost all power steering,” he exclaimed.

This was a surprise to me since we had recently paid to rework the entire vehicle. We coasted into the only gas station in sight which was already closed.

After looking at the engine, Cody called our friend Michelle to bring a part. With the hood open and our arms covered in grease, we were too focused on examining the engine to notice a white sedan pull into the desolate gas station. We continued to work on our vehicle until our friend arrived. After pulling into the station, she handed Cody the part and he set to work, while I glanced up at the gas pumps. I had noticed a strange retching noise but never turned to look. Now looking over, I saw a woman hunched beside her car, inebriated and violently vomiting. “Should we call 911?” I asked, turning to Michelle. Once on the phone, the operator told Michelle there was no one available to help and that we would have to wait.

Worried that the woman would attempt to drive away, Michelle and I approached her. “Ma’am,” Michelle asked, “Can we call someone for you?” We pressed for a name, for any information she would give us, but she only slowly lifted her face and stared at me with an empty gaze. Feeling unsettled, I told her that I would go into her car and find her phone to call someone for her. 

Using the woman’s thumb, Michelle unlocked the phone and went through the woman’s contacts and dialed the contact named “Mom”. Concerned, her mother hotly exclaimed she would come pick her daughter up. 

While we waited, I offered the woman water and, after much insisting, she feebly drank from my water bottle with my assistance. 

Minutes passed and the woman reluctantly turned to me. “I was going to kill myself tonight,” she slurred. 

I had noticed two brunette-haired boys on her phone screen and was immediately alarmed. Painful memories resurfaced. My ex-boyfriend had attempted suicide multiple times, and I knew how excruciatingly painful it was to experience that kind of loss.

The woman poured out her story in a defeated voice. She was a guard at the local prison and had recently been sexually abused by an inmate. Her employer required her to fill out paperwork for incidents involving inmates, but she was wrestling with the decision. The inmate threatened that if she told anyone or filed the paperwork, he would send his gang to kill her and her entire family. 

Silence filled the air. I had tears streaming down my face. 

 “This was gonna be my third time trying to kill myself tonight,” the woman continued.

 I examined her anguished face. “I saw you have two little boys. I know they love you so much and I know how much it would hurt them if you weren’t around,” I implored. My heart ached for her. I asked her if she had considered pursuing protection from the police and seeking counselling. She replied that she hadn’t. 

Michelle told the woman how her own mother had killed herself and how it deeply hurt her. The woman listened intently and said she would like to seek help. 

Once again, the woman peered at me through makeup-smeared eyes. “I don’t remember how I got here. I don’t remember driving.”

 I looked up again at her vehicle and noticed how perfectly parked it was. I was speechless. 

A few minutes later, the mother’s car hurtled into the gas station. We talked to the mother, and she told us she knew about the situation but was not aware of the degree of pain her daughter was carrying. She thanked us and drove her daughter back home in her daughter’s vehicle after parking her own down the street. 

Ten minutes later, a state trooper in a crisp uniform arrived and asked all of us questions. He expressed gratitude for our help in ensuring she got home safely and for calling in a drunk driver. Then the state trooper left, and Cody and I hopped into the car. It started without a hitch, letting out its steadfast purr. Overwhelmed, we drove back home.

I know God broke our vehicle and guided that woman to the gas station. How miraculously every detail lined up can only be proof of His work. Though we never celebrated our anniversary, my boyfriend and I agree that God had a much better plan that day.

“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” – 1 Thessalonians 5:18

Carlye Smedley writes from the Pacific Northwest.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Unexpected Tears

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“Don’t touch anything without your gloves on!” shouted our trip leader.

A group of us inhaled one last deep breath of fresh air before entering another moldy home. Dinner time was approaching, my energy was vanishing, and the last thing I wanted to do was haul out loads of grungy items. Within ten minutes, I was covered in sweat. This was not my idea of a relaxing Spring Break.

I was a young, outgoing, and single-minded teenager. My view of Spring Break consisted of going to the beach, and shopping, instead here I was doing this grimy, dirty work.

“Jana, are you just going to stand there? I need help carrying this bed-frame outside,” a classmate of mine said.

I snapped out of my daydream, yet could not shake off my grouchy mood. Instead of working hard, I kept thinking about my friends enjoying their break without me. I obviously did not want to be cleaning out filthy houses in New Orleans! The true reason I agreed to participate? Because I still needed community service hours to meet school requirements.

Hurricane Katrina had taken place months before our visit, but New Orleans still needed desperate help. Each home we entered reeked, making my eyes burn and stomach churn. The waterline reached clear up to the ceiling in most the homes. Piles of individual’s belongings were smothered in grime. Our job consisted of clearing everything out, and then completely gutting the house.

I walked into a bedroom and started to clean out the closet. I reached into the closet, grabbed a mangled up jacket, and instantly froze in my tracks. I owned that exact same jacket. The room felt eerie, lonely, and cold, it was just me and that jacket. As I peered into the closet, I saw numerous items that were just like mine. How would I feel if my closet had been destroyed? Tears immediately sprang to my eyes. In that moment of silence, I thanked God for what I do have.

People’s belongings, memories, and meaningful items were washed away in hurricane Katrina. There I stood, observing the destruction firsthand. I became ashamed with my self-indulgence, begging God to veer me away from my egocentric viewpoint.

I knew God had put me in that moldy room at that exact moment. He knew how stubborn I was being. Through Him I learned to see the world through a whole new perspective, and appreciate the blessings He has provided.

Jana Kubrock Carter writes from the Pacific Northwest.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Just Walk

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I certainly don’t love money, but I have to admit that on more than one occasion I have taken on a challenge or two in order to replenish my dwindling bank account. Hey, I try to budget, but being this fabulous gets expensive.

In high school, I had a group of friends who took advantage of the fact that my penchant for buying pretty things was greater than the resources needed to attain them. These friends undertook the task of coming up with “dares” that required increasing bravery on my part. As a result, we have some awesome stories, including, but not limited to, “The Ketchup Incident of ’99,” or “Bubble Bath-gate,” and “That thing that happened with Mrs. White that we’re not allowed to talk about. Ever.”

I was recently reminded of my high school “dares” this week. My employer instituted a health initiative that will incentivize employees for being physically active. My coworkers saw this as an opportunity to improve their health. I saw it as the “dare” that would finally help me get that handbag that I was saving up for.

So I’ve started walking to work and monitoring my progress with a pedometer. It’s about a 4.5 mile trek round-trip. I usually start my day around 6:30 a.m., which means that for the most of my trek, I walk in the dark. The worst part is that to get to work, I have to walk due west. That means that my back is to the sunrise. So, I pout as I walk. But I hear a voice telling me “Just walk. Walk into the darkness.” So I do.

Every once in a while, I turn around and see the sun rushing in from the east. The sun paints the sky with brushes dipped red, blue, orange, and purple. God is putting on a show and I have to miss it. So I pout and huff. But He whispers, “Just walk. Walk into the darkness.” So I do. As I walk, I pout, but I also sing and pray.

I blink.

Suddenly, the blues and purples have caught up with me. Followed by oranges and red. Before I know it, the colors have overtaken me and I am surrounded by light.

And so it is with fear.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1:5 NIV).

Jael Amador writes from New York, New York.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Just a Tag

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Today I brought home several items of clothing from visiting one of my favorite department stores. As I cut off the offending price and other tags inside my new jeans, one small tag had a red colored sticker with the number 27. Like many other purchases there was a tag that included the manufacturing country of origin. Number 27 had sewn my new jeans in Indonesia.

So many of my purchases have come from China, a few from India, Vietnam or sometimes the United States, but most are from places far from my home. Rarely do I stop to think about the very real people that make the food, clothes, furniture or appliances that I bring home. But today, I stopped for a second to thank that unknown woman somewhere in Indonesia who sits at a sewing machine. Does she work slow or fast? Does she ever get a raise? Does she have dreams for her life?

Years ago I worked with a head injury rehabilitation company as a job coach. My client was a young man who survived a terrible car accident and could no longer master his former occupation. So I helped him find a job that required minimal skills sweeping in a clothing factory. For several weeks we both went into a factory where women rushed out to go home as we were entering in mid-afternoon. The clothing in that small factory was destined for delivery to the chain of a well-known large discount department store. The manager showed us around the floor where Sam would work, and chatted for a few minutes on some days. There was no air conditioning in the building, so in the summer the women came to work at 3:00 or 4:00 AM so they could leave by noon before the worst heat. All year they worked long hours in a large noisy, dusty room.

My client didn’t last long sweeping at the clothing factory. He managed slow work with a broom around rows of sewing machines. He and his family believed that sweeping was beneath his dignity and it messed up their routine. I have not forgotten our weeks at the factory nor the women that sit at noisy machines making our linens and clothing. Perhaps they will soon be replaced by robots or other machines. But for now I wonder about the life of No. 27 somewhere in Indonesia. I wish I could tell her “thank you” and that I really like my jeans.

Questions for personal journaling or group discussion:

1. What was your first paying job and what did you learn from that experience?
2. What forms of manual labor provide for your lifestyle, clothing or meals?

Karen Spruill writes from Orlando, Florida.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Commitment Lens

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Today is the day. I stared at my reflection in the smudged glass, running my hand down the side of my purple, sequin dress. What would my family or his family think? How would I tell my friends?I pursed my lips together to even out the velvety lipstick – it all felt so surreal. 

“You ready to go?” His voice echoed throughout the house.

“I’m ready.” Grabbing my clutch, I made my way down the soft carpeted stairs. He smiled up at me as I descended. 

“You nervous?”

I gave a smirk before slipping on my coat. “Surprisingly, no.”

It was a particularly chilly October day as we made our way to the Lincoln State Capitol. The four of us hastened up the Capitol steps as each stiff breeze stung our already rosy cheeks. It all happened so fast – the ceremony, the pictures, and the once-in-a-lifetime commitment we made to each other. Being the spontaneous person that I am, I suggested months prior that we should elope in secret, and he agreed. Looking back, I can’t help but smile at the excitement and adventure we experienced in that moment. We had officially eloped without telling anyone but our two witnesses (my brother and my close college friend). After a year of long distance, I finally married my best friend of six years. And despite the frigid October weather, it was an exciting day that I’ll always remember. 

After sharing our news, both of our families were understandably shocked, yet excited to hear of our elopement. We promised we’d still throw a big traditional wedding on our first anniversary so that everyone could celebrate. However, when news snuck out that my husband and I had eloped, friends were surprisingly not so pleased. We received a lot of raw opinions and sheer disapproval. What was supposed to be the happiest decision of my life became a sore subject among some of my closest friends. I felt disappointed that a personal decision that I made became the topic of gossip among many. It was even more hurtful to hear such disapproval being spread around without anyone directly coming to me.

These past few months of marriage, I have received multiple comments about my decision to elope. Friends have expressed their annoyance and hurt feelings over not being invited to a traditional wedding. I’ve received comments like: “You’re not ready, why rush?” and “Your decision is disappointing. You should have had a traditional wedding.” Although these comments remain frustrating, I realize that it’s not necessarily about the big traditional day; the most important outcome is that my husband and I made a commitment to each other.

Receiving the aftermath of my elopement reminds me of a deeper, more spiritual scenario. As Christians, we often show our disapproval of others in their spiritual journey. Some of us want people to accept Christ in a way that we see is correct. It’s easy to judge too quickly or speak too harshly, and I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve found myself casting judgment. In the end, someone else’s relationship with Christ is their own; it’s not up to us what that relationship should look like.

Our Savior values each of us. He meets us where we are, despite how we got there. I realize that it’s not always about finding Christ in a traditional way; it’s that we are committed to following Him. Archibald MacLeish sums it up perfectly:

“Religion is at its best when it makes us ask hard questions of ourselves. It is at its worst when it deludes us into thinking we have all the answers for everybody else.” 

Maddie Temple-Lowe writes from Lincoln, Nebraska.

The post Commitment Lens appeared first on Answers for Me.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

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