A cliche or a wise saying: “It takes a village to raise a child.” For me, the words have matured. “The confines of a Village are needed to rescue an aging adult.” Except for four better forgotten years, all my life in Houston whether single, married, parent, or widow have been lived in or near a place known as The Rice Village. That identifiable space on a map helped me survive this past week’s true life adventure.
Sunday morning began orderly. I planned for a stop at The Village CVS on the way to church. Going in was fine. When I came out, the car had abandoned its get up and go. While not my most welcome happening, I had some leeway of time. Middle son was called into rescue mode. I had a meeting after church and a friend provided a ride home. Since no one could steal a sedentary vehicle, it camped out on the parking lot as a special treat.
Monday morning, son-in-law came into play as helper #2. The Village is a hub for several surrounding areas, so it wasn’t a chore for him to take me back to the car to see if a jump start solved the problem. It didn’t. However, I had already called my insurance to get the number for their towing service. I had specific locations for pick up and drop off. The cut off distance for towing is 15 miles and it is only 1.2 miles (did I mention The Village being centrally located?) to the dealership, so I settled in for the 60 – 90 minutes before help would arrive.
I had come prepared for some wait. I had time for a short walk to the post office and back by the coffee shop to buy a ham and cheese croissant and include a bathroom stop before settling in to read. Then the timing got tangled. The tow truck started from south/west Houston and while the CVS has a Kirby address, its orientation is like a strip mall and the entrance faces a side street called Bolsover. The tow truck driver, to his credit, did call several times to report in and a conglomeration of broken Spanish and Louisiana drawl finally got him to my part of the world, The Village.
Then it was like watching the punch line to the old joke about the man repairing the machinery by knowing exactly where to hit with the ball peen hammer. No words can explain how a 15 foot flatbed got put at the right angle for a seemingly immoveable car to be ratcheted up the incline and locked in place. The driver helped me up to ride shotgun five minutes to the area still within my geographical comfort circle to start repair.
Fast forward. Both car and I are home, three blocks away from The Village where the adventure started. One of my favorite back of mind verses is Ezra 8:31 to be offered after journeys when the worst that could have happened didn’t. Through it all, I was in a place I knew, I had family to call on and a phone that worked, the weather was pleasant and the icing on the cake was a free car wash and an in-warranty battery replacement which cost me $0.00! Definitely deserves a “Praise God!”
And the gracious hand of our God protected us and saved us from enemies and bandits along the way.
Ezra 8:31
Let Me Tell Ya 