My military son had been having a string of tough times. To clear his head and take a break, he went for a road trip in his little Miata two-seater convertible. On his way back in the late evening, he had to cross a four mile bridge over the Chesapeake Bay. Partway across, he ran completely out of gas. Apparently his fuel gauge was broken, because there was no indication that he was even low before he ran completely out. He called me, panic-stricken. There was no shoulder at all, and he was stopped directly in the right lane. In his tiny silver car with dim hazard blinkers, it was nearly inevitable that someone would smash into him. He was stuck on the road, and invisible to traffic. If he got out of his car, in case it got hit, there was nowhere to go but off the bridge and into the ocean. He was trapped, out of gas, and in imminent danger. I didn’t know what to tell him to do. As I tried to talk him down from his panic, he stopped me. “Mom,” he said, “You’ll never believe this! There’s a massive Department of Transportation work truck pulling up behind me! I’ll call you right back.” He hung up and I waited, prayed, and worried, anxious to hear the rest of the story.

 About 20 minutes later, he called me back, beside himself with wonder. That big, beautiful DOT truck pulled up behind him with lights shining everywhere. The driver got out and offered to push my son’s car with his truck to the end of the bridge and safety. Meanwhile, yet another truck pulled in front of him to light the way. A third truck came in behind the other one and followed the whole train just in case. They pushed him to safety, gave him a few gallons of gas, and made sure all was well before leaving him to safely finish his trip home.