At Rock Hill, (a small sleepy town,) he deposited us. In an encouraging tone, he said, “You got a diner here and you can walk around a bit.” In an almost pleading voice my husband reiterated “and we have an appointment at 5:00 right? “Yup” and off he sped in his tow truck leaving us in front of a closed repair shop in an empty lot.
“What a way to spend a Sunday afternoon,” my husband remarked. “Well, baruch Hashem we are safe, there was no accident, and I’m sure there is a good reason for everything that happened to us,” I mused.
Several hours passed, during which we spent time borrowing any passersby’s cell phone, ours having lost power, calling car rental agencies, most of which were closed on Sundays, and trying not to bemoan our seemingly purposeless afternoon. 5:00 came and went and no sign of our would-be rescuer. “Never put your trust in anyone except for Hakadosh Borach Hu, we thought.” As we were approaching the evening hours, the confidence of the early morning was gone, replaced by a sickening feeling of insecurity, helplessness, and perhaps a growing panic; where would we sleep tonight?
Suddenly, I had an inspiration. “Call Chaverim. They are Yidden and they will care about their fellow Jews. True to their renowned reputation, they were at our side in minutes and did what they could. They gave us a boost which lasted until we stalled again in a parking lot in front of an accountant’s office. If I were to wax philosophically, I could say that Hashem has his own accounting system of our deeds and destiny. By now it was 6:30 in the evening. Of course, we gave up all hope of visiting day and started to think of a desperate plan to get home.
“Let’s go to the highway and hitch a ride,” suggested my husband. “What! Hitch?” I asked incredulously. I never hitched in my life.” My husband removed the GPS from the car and placed a sign in the window stating the car’s disabled status and our contact information.
“Wait!” My husband pointed out. “You can’t leave all the fruits and vegetables from the farmers market. They’ll spoil.” We trudged along, carrying bags of peaches, acorn squash and corn on the cob across the highway. A car zipped passed me. “AAAH!” “Be careful!” We stood in the middle of a small grassy area and waited by an entrance ramp.
“Put the bags behind us,” I pleaded. “People will think we are homeless.” After twenty minutes of waiting, we realized that most cars were filled with families with no room to spare and virtually no one stopped.
Finally, a van full of single girls pulled up. “Where are you going?” we asked. “Monsey.” “But we are going to Queens.” “Well you are better off going with us than waiting on the road all night.” “She’s right,” agreed my husband. We can always take a bus from Monsey. The young girls graciously made room for us and even offered to recharge our dead phone. One of the girls suddenly realized that they didn’t say Tefilas Haderech today. “I can’t. I get nauseous reading in a moving car.” “Well I’m driving said the third girl.” “I’ll say it,” I volunteered. When I came to the words Vhegha limchos cheftzenu, make us reach our destined place, the words took on a whole new meaning. We can plan to a T but it is really Hashem who guides us.
Most striking was the girls’ kindness and perseverance in trying to help us out of our predicament. One girl rolled down her window and waved vigorously at any car that would notice, calling out, “can you take a couple to Queens or Brooklyn? Their car broke down.” After a half hour of this refrain, the young girl’s tireless efforts were rewarded. One couple two lanes down graciously and gladly agreed to stop. They took us to Williamsburg where our son met us and drove us home at last.