How Do You Lose A Car?
This post is the second of three. If you want to catch up, Here’s where you can read Part 1.
After our 5 hour walking tour of the city, we get the call- it’s time to head back to pick up our daughter. No problem.
“Honey, which way back to the car?”
“We just need to follow this road.”
One small problem.
It’s dark and somehow, someway we are unable to find the lot our car is parked in.
My hubby is determined…convinced we parked in a certain area.
I am so geographically challenged I limp along behind him, hopeful, trusting.
A half hour of walking later…I am starting to rub my temples.
We have walked and walked and doubled back and still no sign of thus said lot.
I glance upward at the night sky, noting the stars and follow my dear hubby reluctantly.
There is a storm beginning to brew between us.
Is it a fact or a myth that men
don’t like to refuse to ask for directions?
When my husband actually relents and asks strangers, I begin to panic.
Surely this one sign assures our complete hopelessness!
It is like the final frontier. I’ve known him for 30 years and can count the times he has asked for help, let alone directions. I start to meltdown. These almost 50 year old hips start to ache (look at me getting old!). I am getting hate texts from my exhausted daughter from across town as she is waiting for us.
I begin to hyperventilate, when the phone slips from my hand, smashing into at least 5 distinct pieces on the ground. He looks at me and states, uncharacteristically, “Hope you didn’t break it, because you’re not getting a new one.” Hubby and I are at a standoff, about to have the mother of all marriage fights, big guns about to come out. Our voices are loud, Italian sign language (wildly flailing arms) is being used freely and thankfully we are so far away from the hub of the city now it doesn’t matter.
If you are a fan of It’s a Wonderful Life you will appreciate that Clarence is sent to help George Bailey at his moment of hopelessness. Well, God sent this feuding couple a soft spoken, easy going, out for a walk, Bostonian named Tito.
For some reason Tito is not taken aback or afraid of us.
I quickly sum up whether he is a killer or not.
After a minute or two of talking with him, I assess he is reasonably safe.
I can tell my hubby (much less trusting than I) is doing the same.
Plus, let’s face it…we are at Tito’s mercy one way or another.
Perhaps he is wondering the same about the crazy Rhode Islanders he has stumbled upon.
He confirms we are about a 30 minute walk from where we need to be, and offers a ride.
“I grew up in Boston, I can get you to the lot and get right on the highway and head home, it’s trouble at all.”
I look at my husband and know this is the ultimate question for any man.
Will we accept the help offered from this stranger?
I wait to see what he will say, eyeing him behind Tito’s back, waiting for the nod of approval or disapproving, “don’t even think about it” look.
He’s tired, and lost and I get the nod.
My (almost) 50 year old hips rejoice – along with my blistered feet.
We are also for the moment sidetracked from our wrath toward one another and our arguing whether we are near Fenway, the city or in Never-Never Land for that matter.
But there’s still more…and God shows up, as always just in time, only to remind us He has been there all along. Tomorrow join me for the conclusion of our Boston adventure and invaluable take-homes for our journey!
Post goes live at 12 AM Eastern Standard Time!
Hope to see you then…or shortly thereafter!