Our car broke down when we were almost home. Who would repair it on Thanksgiving?
I was a college student in Illinois that Thanksgiving, and I couldn't wait to get home to Massachusetts for the holidays. A friend's mother offered me a lift as far as upstate New York, where my parents were going to pick me up.
Mrs. Case and I drove all through the chilly night. Just after sunrise on Thanksgiving morning, the engine quit and we rolled to a stop on a deserted highway somewhere in western New York.
Mrs. Case said calmly, "God doesn't get you just halfway. Let's pray, Richard." After we prayed a little, she turned the key again. The engine coughed and started. The car lurched down the road. We barely made it to a garage at the next exit. I found the owner in back.
"Lucky you caught me," he said. "We're closed today. I just came in to clean up." He checked the engine, then gave us a funny look. "Who pushed you in from the highway?" We told him no one. He shook his head. "That's impossible," he insisted. "A part is burned out and the engine can't run without it."
He didn't have the part, and he told us no other shops were open that day. "I doubt anybody has it in stock anyway," he said.
Seeing our stricken expressions, he said, "Won't hurt to try, I suppose." He went to make a call. In a few minutes, he was back. "My buddy's shop is closed, but he just happened to be there doing some paperwork. Strange, huh? He's got the part you need."
Mrs. Case delivered me to where my parents were waiting with their car. At home in time for Thanksgiving dinner, I said a special thank you, because now I knew: God doesn't get you just halfway.
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