Prayer 101

I was running late for aerobics class, eyeing the needle on the gas gauge bouncing merrily on E. Enough to zip to class, I thought. As I turned onto the Marsh Road entrance to I-95, I was stopped by the line of cars backed up all the way to the foot of the ramp. It was too late to take a different route. The back end of my car was blocking traffic. As I inched my way up, I saw cars lined up for miles in both directions. The traffic report on the radio said two lanes were closed precisely where I was, but no explanation why. Now, instead of bouncing, the needle was lodged firmly on E, with that little orange oval growing unnervingly brighter and brighter. I felt equal parts stupid and petrified.

When I finally got off the ramp, I pulled onto the shoulder and hit the hazard lights. I calmly pulled out my cell phone to call my husband. I was greeted with the "Recharge Battery" message, followed by Cingular's fade-out graphic and "bye". Cute, in an evil kind of way. And so I prayed. Help me. Give me strength. Wondering if this was theologically correct, actually, since I didn't believe in asking for parking spaces and well anything like that. I considered driving down the shoulder until I saw someone else do it, a cop chasing quickly behind. I sat in my cold car, hoping that the traffic would clear soon and I could make it to a gas station. After half an hour, it didn't.

So I wrote a polite, girly note to the highway patrol explaining my situation, stuck it under a windshield wiper and started walking. Immediately, people started offering to help, though I couldn't see how, since we weren't moving. I took a woman up on her offer to lend me her cell phone, though. Robert was sympathetic with only a tiny note of reproval. But he was late for his own travel plans, and could I handle this? I said y-yes. I couldn't see how he could reach me, anyhow.

The woman took back her cell phone and said, "Hop in. My name is Steph, by the way. I'm not a weirdo." Steph had no qualms about driving down the shoulder with her blinkers on. "There's only about two cops up this way anyway, and I'm sure they're both busy," she said. I liked her. She kept a five-gallon can of gas in her garage because of her 24-year-old son who drives a '98 Cadillac and tends to call her, out of gas. She said that his dad is very nice and would probably do it, but she thought kids called their moms for things like this. Dads tended to ask questions, like "How did you let this happen?" and "What were you thinking?" She said she had done plenty of dumb things herself to say anything like that.

We got off 95, reached her house in two shakes, and were miraculously back at my blinking car. She poured gas in my tank and sped off, barely giving me time to thank her.

I don't know how prayer works. I doubt it's like the scene from "It's a Wonderful Life" and that sweet, goofy angel, Clarence getting a call from Dispatch to go help George Bailey. But I do think some things are true. We have to be open to receive. I got nothing until I actually got out of my car and looked like someone who needed help. We have to accept that we deserve help, even when we are in our sweatpants with no make-up and dirty hair and had planned to brush our teeth in the locker room. Even when we put off getting gas and forget to charge our cell phones, and should know better. God loves us like a mom that doesn't judge us, just comes to get us. And we have to be the mom sometimes, for it to work.