Years ago, Interstate 10 tried to kill me. It had an accomplice…my own stupidity.
Fortunately, God was bigger than even that dynamic duo. And his deliverance left me wondering just how much room we have to complain to him over suffering.
Many of us speak of our first car with fondness. I am foremost among them, but not for the reasons you’d think.
It was the day after Christmas, 2002. I was driving my Dodge Intrepid down Interstate 10 from Luke Air Force Base in Phoenix, where I was stationed, to visit my grandfather in Tucson. A nap attack arrived – I swear it’s always around 1:35pm – and I figured I could fight the fatigue and keep driving. Older and wiser now, I advise thus: pull over and nap. It only takes twenty minutes to reset your body.
That day, somewhere north of Casa Grande, I nodded off. The freeway curved to the right; I did not. The rumble strips woke me up and I swerved hard right to correct – too hard. The back end of my Intrepid swung out left and took the rest with it. I remember only skidding into…
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