Friday, June 25, 2010

ride home.










{breakfast during our conference vacation}

About 1 hour into our ride home, our pretty {I have mentioned my van was pretty, right?} van started to get ill. My husband was pushing on the gas pedal, but the big white van was decreasing in speed. Being the optimistic man that my husband is, he speculated that it was possible that the van was slowing down a bit because we had been ascending for an extended period of time... Hmmm. Of course, that theory crashed and burned when he wasn't able to accelerate on level ground either.

I prayed; he prayed; I believe even the children were praying.

Breaking down in the middle of the desert somewhere in Arizona at mid day with the temperature approaching 115ยบ with 7 little cupcakes is not a welcome thought in my mommy mind. But as we pressed on, my husband began looking for an exit that looked more inviting than a few big rigs fueling up with a bunch of broken down vehicles littering the landscape in the background. With each passing mile, the likelihood of us making it home that day grew more and more dim.

All the possibilities and questions swirled through our heads....do we turn around and go back? At least we have friends there. Do we keep going and see what happens? Do we pull off in some creepy, desolate town where the Bates motel may be in operation? Or try to get to the next city? I told my husband I was extremely happy that I was not the man of the family and told him that he could make any decision he felt needed to be made. Whew!....Thank God it's not on me.

Remember-- I was the youngest in my family and he was the oldest, so that dynamic works well in our marriage.

We headed for the next town 4 miles down the road and prayed our car to a chain store called Brake Master. This seemed to be the closest and only show in town. Unfortunately we didn't know what to do with 7 children in 115 degree weather while our big pretty sick van was diagnosed.

With no where to go, we sat in the lobby of the auto shop and waited.....

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