When I remember prayers answered, I think about my 1995 Intrepid. From the time we bought it in early 1996, it was an answered prayer. We bought it after a semi-truck crunched our brand new Mazda, and we put more than 200,000 uneventful miles on it before we passed it on to one of our children.
The fall of 1999 was one of the most challenging of many challenging times for Gary and me. Our company lurched closer to bankruptcy, and all our employees were gone, so Gary and I worked 14 hour days to handle the jobs that “almost” put us in the black.
When the opportunity to teach at Salt Lake Community College for enough to make the Intrepid payments came up, Gary and I prayed and received the assurance that I should go ahead. We thought we’d absolutely be “out of the hole” in the four months of the semester. My Aunt Cheryl offered to let me live with her while possibilities germinated and flourished....
For the first time in nearly 15 years, I was forced to drive on icy roads, in the dark. I taught at both the main campus and the Sandy campus, which meant driving many miles in the late afternoon and returning after dark. My night vision wasn’t all that great and I was nervous about driving in the dark.
One February night during that semester revealed to me, again, that God was just a prayer away. After staying later than usual with a student, I walked into the almost deserted parking lot and realized that the sleet had turned to a light snow. When I pulled out of my parking space, the Intrepid’s wheels spun and lurched; I barely missed ramming a light pole. Snow dusted black ice–probably the worst driving conditions possible.
I seriously considered spending the night in the parking, but I didn’t have a cell phone and nothing was open where I could call Cheryl. I had no choice but to attempt the drive home along 900 East.
My heart in my throat, I bowed my head and prayed, then eased onto the street. The snow fell faster and I had to switch on my wipers. I’d crept about a half block when a big sanding truck pulled out in front of me, his lights flashing, sand spraying behind him. I breathed a “thank you” and followed his sandy trail. He led me all the way from 7900 South until the signal light at 800 South, then he turned left on 800 South, cruised several blocks, and paused for a minute just beyond my aunt’s driveway.
I clicked off the engine, snow falling softly around me. I whispered a prayer of gratitude, tears of relief running down my cheeks, then I gathered up my books and went inside as Cheryl opened the front door.
“You’re late; I was worried,” she said.
I closed the door behind me, shook the snow off my coat, and set down my briefcase, “Let me tell you what happened....”
When I’ve felt alone or helpless in the years since this experience, I’ve remembered that sanding truck and been warmed by the thought that safety and comfort are always only a prayer away.
Corrie Lynne Player
The fall of 1999 was one of the most challenging of many challenging times for Gary and me. Our company lurched closer to bankruptcy, and all our employees were gone, so Gary and I worked 14 hour days to handle the jobs that “almost” put us in the black.
When the opportunity to teach at Salt Lake Community College for enough to make the Intrepid payments came up, Gary and I prayed and received the assurance that I should go ahead. We thought we’d absolutely be “out of the hole” in the four months of the semester. My Aunt Cheryl offered to let me live with her while possibilities germinated and flourished....
For the first time in nearly 15 years, I was forced to drive on icy roads, in the dark. I taught at both the main campus and the Sandy campus, which meant driving many miles in the late afternoon and returning after dark. My night vision wasn’t all that great and I was nervous about driving in the dark.
One February night during that semester revealed to me, again, that God was just a prayer away. After staying later than usual with a student, I walked into the almost deserted parking lot and realized that the sleet had turned to a light snow. When I pulled out of my parking space, the Intrepid’s wheels spun and lurched; I barely missed ramming a light pole. Snow dusted black ice–probably the worst driving conditions possible.
I seriously considered spending the night in the parking, but I didn’t have a cell phone and nothing was open where I could call Cheryl. I had no choice but to attempt the drive home along 900 East.
My heart in my throat, I bowed my head and prayed, then eased onto the street. The snow fell faster and I had to switch on my wipers. I’d crept about a half block when a big sanding truck pulled out in front of me, his lights flashing, sand spraying behind him. I breathed a “thank you” and followed his sandy trail. He led me all the way from 7900 South until the signal light at 800 South, then he turned left on 800 South, cruised several blocks, and paused for a minute just beyond my aunt’s driveway.
I clicked off the engine, snow falling softly around me. I whispered a prayer of gratitude, tears of relief running down my cheeks, then I gathered up my books and went inside as Cheryl opened the front door.
“You’re late; I was worried,” she said.
I closed the door behind me, shook the snow off my coat, and set down my briefcase, “Let me tell you what happened....”
When I’ve felt alone or helpless in the years since this experience, I’ve remembered that sanding truck and been warmed by the thought that safety and comfort are always only a prayer away.
Corrie Lynne Player
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