Oh but this morning hit me hard in another way...on
Tuesday I had to get
up early to take my dad to work, and instead of
putting my shoes on, I
opted for laziness and left in my cookie monster
slippers that Elena
gave me last year for Christmas. So dad and I are
driving along, and
everything is swell. I dropped him off and headed
home. I hit River
Avenue, and I hear this flapping roar, and I look in
my review mirror to
figure out which obnoxious car behind me is making
the racket. They were
all pretty nice cars (typical of Hollanders), so I
thought "it might be
the expresso machine." I looked to the side of the
road where the
construction workers were to see if any of them
would flag me down to
tell me that the van was on fire. They acted normal,
and since there was
really no where to pull off I kept driving. As I
approached the Civic
Center, the stirring wheel started rattling, so I
pulled into the
parking lot (could not have been more perfect timing
there *smiles at
Jesus*.) I shuffled out of the car, (wearing cookie
monsters on your
feet makes it hard to do anything else.) and sure
enough I had a pancake
tire. I had my cell phone, so I called home...but
since I had the only
vehicle there was nothing my mom could do. I knew
one thing, I would not
be traipsing about town in my slippers. I got
someone to pick me up, I
don't know him that well so it was a little awkward,
maybe just for me.
He thought it was funny. I left the van there until
dad attached a
hamster wheel, and that's how we've been driving the
"E machine" since
then. Yesterday I took it to work, Mary Jo asked to
borrow it to go to
her appointment. I said "just be gentle, she's got a
gimpy wheel." I
drove it home all emotional later, and did not
notice any difference.

This morning at 7:30 dad asked me if I knew what was
wrong with the
tires. I was a little freaked out, and answered
"No." He told me then
that all but one had been replaced. I wanted to cry
for thankfulness
this morning, but I guess most of my tears come when
I'm selfishly
consumed with my own sorry-ness. I am blessed, my
family's blessed.
There's got to be a better word that I'm not using
here.