Kind Stranger

Why is it called “rush hour” when traffic most often crawls or stalls?

My most recent job involved a great deal of traveling, often more than five hundred miles a week. One Friday evening, after a very long work week away from home, only a two hour drive separated me from some much anticipated family time. The first hour of my drive was uneventful (what I always hope for when on the interstate). But, when I hit “rush hour” traffic, my journey home became eventful—not in a good way.

I cruised in the left lane, as fast as I could safely navigate in heavy traffic.  After all, my purpose was passing through with no intent to delay. Suddenly, the cars in front of me stopped. In heavy traffic, a sudden slow down often doesn’t bode well for travelers. I halted with inches to spare, but a glance in my rear view mirror revealed a vehicle approaching—too fast.

My stomach lurched and both hands clenched the steering wheel. “That car’s going to hit me!”

Tires screamed in protest as the driver finally hit the brakes.

WHAM! I later learn the estimated speed was forty-five miles per hour at time of impact. I felt like one of those dummies in test crashes, bouncing around inside my car. The force broke the driver’s seat and tossed both the seat and me into the back. My car slammed into the divided highway concrete barrier and bounced off, crashing into the rear of the vehicle in front of me.

Shouts and screams.

Sirens wailing.

Tapping on my window… “Are you okay?” The person in the front car asks me.

“I’m not sure.” I look at her from my reclining position in the back of the car, my knees pointed toward the roof.

I discover I can move so a struggle ensues to get out of the seat belt. How did it stretch so much?

City police arrive on the scene. My traumatic experience is apparently routine for the investigating officer.

“Move your car out of the road, ma’am,” the policeman demands.

“Sir, I’m not sure I can.” I tremble, my teeth chatter.

“Sure, you can. Just do it.” He walked away.

Breathe in. Breathe out. You can do this.

I crouch in the place where my seat used to be and attempt to move the car to the shoulder of the interstate.

My hands tremble as I struggle to put numbers into my cell phone. My husband doesn’t answer so I call a friend.

A hysteric rant interrupts conversation. The woman that crashed my car yells at me for being stopped in the road. “You caused this!” Her boyfriend pulls her away and explains that the accident is her fault.

She screams and spills a stream of profanity.

The ambulance arrives and transports me to the local hospital. Vital signs check okay, but the trembling doesn’t abate. The EMTs cover me with a blanket to help stop the shaking and deposit me into a wheel chair in the emergency room.

I’m alone.

Finally, my husband calls.

I need you. I’m scared. Please come.

Taking a deep breath, I strive for calm. “I’m okay. I’m at the hospital in the waiting room.”

“We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Please hurry.

As always, the ER is busy. Patients in and out, doctors being paged, families huddled together waiting for good news…or bad.

The cold and loneliness of the Emergency Rooms settled on me like freezing rain on a winter day. The smell of antiseptic, body waste, and fear permeates the air. I pulled the blanket around me and shrank into the wheel chair.

“Excuse me.”

I looked up into the face of a stranger. She’s not in uniform.  Who would be speaking to me?

“I just noticed you seem to be alone.” She looked around. “You don’t have anyone with you?”

I opened my mouth to speak. No words came. She rested her hand gently on mine as I clutched the blanket. “I…” took a deep breath and tried again, “I was in an accident on 40.”

“Did you call your family? Are they coming?”

“Yes.” I nodded, trying to reassure myself. “They’ll be here in about an hour.”

“That’s a long time. I can stay with you.” Her hand brought warmth to my cold one. I looked up to meet concerned brown eyes. “I guess I look as scared as I feel.” My smile wobbled and I bit my lip in an attempt to keep my voice steady.

“Just a little.” Her smile brightened the glumness of the waiting room. “I think you’re very brave.”

My gaze found a man waiting behind her. He nodded as if to tell me they’d both wait with me.

But, she’d given me the gifts I needed.

Compassion and hope.

I have no doubt that she was an angel sent by God to reassure me.

Angels don’t always have wings. Sometimes they’re ordinary people recruited by God as a messenger to show His love for us.

She didn’t just bring comfort to a frightened woman in need—she taught a lesson in kindness. I received an unforgettable gift and a lifetime reminder that the smallest and simplest acts of kindness show great love.

Has a kind stranger or God’s angel come to your aid? Please share with us in the comment section below. In a world where violence, hate, and anger seem to increase each day, some good news can bring hope!

And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them. 1 John 4:16