“They’re sending me to Bend.” His words echoed in my mind. They’d called him in early, at about six in the morning, and I couldn’t believe they chose that day, of all days, to send him through a steep and rugged mountain pass in his semi. Our children were all celebrating the early-morning news of a snow day…but I was fighting off the dread that was rising up from the pit of my stomach. I decided to say a prayer of protection for my husband, and throughout the day I repeated it in silence.
I was able to speak to him a few more times during the day. Once – for him to tell me that he’d made it through the scariest part and was nearly to his destination, and again – for him to tell me that he was headed back into the worse part of it, on his way back to Portland. The girls and I were on the way to their volleyball practice at that point and, although I figured I’d make it back home before he did, I was looking forward to his call that he’d made it through safely…that call never came.
Home from practice, dinner served, little ones put down for the night…still no call. We were trying call him, beginning to grow worried and hoping to hear his voice, but his voicemail kept picking up instead. I waited. I tried to call again. I waited some more. Nothing. Finally at eleven thirty, almost eighteen hours since he left for work, I decided to call his dispatcher myself. I stumbled over my words in an attempt to find out where my husband was.
“What’s your husband’s name?” he asked
“Antonio Sparrow.” I answered
“Oh, um, can you hold? I need to transfer you to my supervisor.”
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
My hope for any reassurance was quickly dashed as his words stabbed clear to the heart of me: “We last had contact with your husband at seven. We’ve been unable to get throught to him since.” Now nearing midnight, that news was not what I wanted to hear. I had an immediate urge to throw up. I gave the dispatcher my number, in exchange for his promise to call me as soon as he heard anything.
Another half hour passed. Nothing. I waited, full of an energy I’d never experienced before, eyes darting from the clock to the phone, and then back again – over and over and over.
At almost one in the morning, the silence was so loud. My home was so warm, and all I could think about was whether or not my husband was too. My mind was racing between different scenarios, most of them scary, and my fear was growing with each passing minute…
The phone rang.
The caller ID that flashed across our muted TV screen told me everything I ever wanted to know. It was him. My husband. Thank You, Lord. As fast as my eyes saw his name, my hands grabbed the phone, and my mouth began firing off questions.
My poor husband had been stranded in the snowy mountain pass. Authorities had stopped traffic and were not allowing anyone through. His hands had been frozen solid, thawed out, and then frozen again as he chained up the big rig. His back was aching from that same task, and his head was still pounding from the collision it had with cold, hard metal of his truck – as he stood up after getting those chains on. He was exhausted, frustrated, irritated, worried, and homesick…but he was safe.
GOD IS GOOD.
The energy that had sustained me through those hours of worry, well, it was quickly replaced with a literal wave of fatigue. I felt it wash over me, starting in my neck and shoulders and moving down through my feet. It was wierd.
I’d like to tell you that the remainder of the night (or should I say morning) went smoothly but, after staying awake and waiting for him for the following three hours, he called me from just down the street. The snowstorm had made its way to our area just in time to meet him at an incline down the road – and send his car into a ditch. AWESOME. Tired barely begins to describe the mood in the house the remainder of the day. Actually, I take that back…GRATEFUL barely begins to describe the mood in the house the remainder of the day.
Thanks again, Father…
