I drive a hybrid minivan, which is fantastic for driving kids all over town and living 15 minutes from anywhere in a solar-powered home.

But for 11-hour rides following Thanksgiving with out-of-state family, we still rely on the power-packed punch of a petroleum product. It ensures we get bathroom stops, anyway.

As we approached the Blues Mountains, my husband pulled an Elissa move: he completely missed his exit! It was our last chance for fuel before 40 miles of mountain pass.

In his dismay, he briefly contemplated cutting through the grassy median. I silently prayed. Our youngest was certain he knew what we should do. And Google was no help at all.

My imagination kindled, I envisioned my husband in his flip-flops, cargo shorts, and jewel-toned polo. He would make for an interesting pedestrian if our tank reached empty before we reached the snowy summit. But, hey, he might look harmless enough that someone would offer him a ride.

A tiny exit appeared, leading to nowhere we wanted to go, BUT–in the other direction was an on-ramp that allowed us to backtrack. We took the first available exit after that, which took us a ways to a gas station we had never visited. (I’m going to make this a long story; go ahead and take a seat).

So I’m re-filling water bottles while waiting for four kids to cycle through the single bathroom (a terrible idea on a full bladder), when I overhear the guy at the register apologizing to a man because they don’t sell gas cans. The man thanks him all the same and heads for the next station which is a “good bet” for success…and another mile away.

Because I assume everything is my business, I shout across the store to the employee, “So that guy needs gas, but you guys don’t sell gas cans?” Indeed. Google reviews, here I come.

Well.

I am never so overburdened that I can’t volunteer my husband to lend a hand. He and our eldest had just gone back out to the van, so I call him from the waiting-for-the-toilet line. He was about to call me with the same question–can we help this man?

The matter is settled. Our 17-year-old will act as security detail, and my husband will have a new best friend. Nothing can possibly go wrong. So I pray some more.

After settling my more pressing business, the kids and I settle down in the gas station cafe with the rare treat of self-dispensed drinks and Jo-Jo’s from the hot window case.

My husband makes sure the guy gets 2 gallons at the station down the road (he learned from a similar situation growing up that 1 gallon isn’t enough to sate a mini-van’s thirst), and then he calls me to discuss phase 2.

Except that I’ve missed the call, and as I call him back, I wonder if a desperate plea for help has gone unanswered.

But he and his new best friend answer. It turns out the man walked 12 miles down the mountain pass,* and if we all squeeze in, we can safely return him to his stranded vehicle. Seven seat belts for seven bruhs.

So we pile in, I meet George, and then I do what any self-respecting mom would do: I offer him food and drink while improvising a shank out of our vehicle escape tool.

I ask him about his travels, and we learn he was on his way back to New York, where he works with a gifted keyboard/synthesizer musician named Tom. He had gone to Portland to ensure the safety of a woman he has some connection to and feared for (but “obviously, six weeks was long enough, since she was half [his] age”). Huh.

In all fairness, he graciously thanked us repeatedly, and after about a dozen miles, the car he had described materialized.** I was beginning to wonder how many times he would say, “This is starting to look familiar” before we would have to call his bluff, bind him with my son’s friendship bracelet materials, and deliver him for a bounty to local authorities.

Not today, it would seem.

We pulled over a safe distance. He insisted there was no need to get him to the other side of the freeway; he would cross the dividing rail and be on his way.

Better him than us, I thought in relief.

The truth is, I didn’t ever feel suspicious or worried, even with his odd reason for being in Portland. A lot of women are in scary situations and need a big teddy bear disguised as a mountain man to ward off abusive exes. Who knows?

Anyway, I do believe we missed our intended exit as an answer to prayer, but in the retelling, I just can’t pass up the opportunity to make a sweet story a little bit salty. So if you think you can’t make a difference because you aren’t in a position to pick up that guy trudging down the interstate, go ahead and pray for him. Maybe you’re the one whose prayer we answered today.

*My husband read the story and corrected this detail. He hitchhiked those twelve miles. Not so hard on the soles, then, but still quite a feat. Ha. Ha.
**I took notes, just in case. It was a maroon(ed) Toyota Sienna with 130,000 miles that he bought from a kind, older man at an auction in San Diego when he decided to head to Buffalo for half the living costs and has now put 20,000 miles on it, along with fixing the brakes and a few other things. That I remember this many details with my ADHD is itself a Thanksgiving miracle.

(The title of this post comes from Twenty One Pilots’ Oldies Station, probably my favorite TØP “you can live through the ups and downs” song.)