The Southwest Death March

Okay, I know it’s hyperbole (with apologies to Bataan survivors), but my friend Linda and I came to see our trip through the southwest desert as just that eleven years ago: a near death march with a happy ending.

It started out innocently enough. I sat at my computer supposedly writing a novel when Linda sent an email. A semi-handicapped friend who frequently used a wheelchair, she was driving home from her daughter’s Virginia wedding and was  in Texas, exhausted. She needed prayer to make it to northern California.

School would be out in three days. I had a Southwest airlines frequent flyer coupon. My dear friend Wendy lived in El Paso, which was on the way. I called my husband. “Should I fly to Texas tomorrow and help Linda drive home? I’ll be gone about five days.”

He’s a saint. “Sure.”

My concern was she not travel through the desert by herself (and Pepper the black lab service dog). That’s why I thought God wanted me to go, just in case something happened.

“I can’t handle heat,” I told her. “But as long as your air conditioning works, I can do this drive.”

Surprised and thankful, Linda had one assurance: “I just had the car serviced. No problem.”

I flew to Houston. The next day  we drove 10 straight hours down I-10 to Wendy’s house in El Paso.

Day three saw us up early. Wendy and Loren prayed for our trip, we got into the blue handicapped van and returned to I-10. We were headed to Tucson for lunch with Linda’s  father and thence to Mesa, Arizona where she had arranged to meet an Internet pal at a 7 o’clock church service.

A full day.

The New Mexico desert was cool when we started out, but quickly grew hot in the June sun. An hour east of Tucson with the heat blazing down and reflecting back up, we heard a bang and power drained. Linda pulled over to the side of the desolate freeway. I saw only cacti when I jumped out of the passenger seat.

“Lord,” I prayed. “This is why I came, in case of trouble. Keep us safe and get us home safely, please.”

We opened the hood–a total joke where I’m concerned.

“Whatever’s broken, stand up and wave.”

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Nothing happened.

Trucks breezed by on the freeway, cars zoomed past. Neither cell phone picked up a signal. We looked at each other. Time to pray?

A sedan pulled to a stop some distance up the shoulder. Two heads with very short hair. We looked at each other. “Please, Lord, keep us safe.”

The car backed down the freeway. When it reached us, the passenger got out and walked our way.

She was middle aged with a very short haircut. And if I was not mistaken, a mustard seed necklace around her neck.

“My husband is a mechanic. Are you having trouble? He’d be happy to take a look.”

No surprises. His tee-shirt proclaimed their beliefs in colorful lettering: Maranatha!

“I think it’s a problem with your air conditioning.” He tweaked something in the engine. “You’re safe to get to Tucson, maybe even back to California if you’re careful. We’ll follow you into Tucson to make sure.”

Rejoice! God had sent me to the desert southwest so Linda would be safe. I knew it.

But what about me?

Could I be saintly without air conditioning?

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We drank lots of ice water and lemonade that roasting day at lunch and carried several water bottles with us. I had the 100 mile Tucson to Mesa leg.

I don’t do well in hot weather. The window was open. I drank all the water.

I should have quit driving 50 miles in. By the time we got to Mesa, I was nearly hallucinating from the heat.

We pulled up to the large church at five o’clock and I staggered to the building. Opening the door, I nearly collapsed from the icy shock of air conditioning. I guzzled frigid water from the  drinking fountain and then laid down on a pew outside the sanctuary.

My head spun. I closed my eyes and pretty much faded away.

We skipped the five o’clock service that Saturday night, and met her friend for the seven o’clock service. I still felt woozy and shaky.

It was an odd service; I’d never really attended a mega-church service before. Fuzziness still framed my vision.

Until communion.

Eating that tiny pebble of bread and drinking that thimbleful of grape juice revived me. Completely. My head cleared and I could sing, respond and think once more.

We spent that night in a hotel and got up at four o’clock to cross the desert into the promised land of California.

The Southwest death march was over–and the blessings came for me in California.

It was Father’s Day. Many family members lived just off I-10, all the way to the Pacific Ocean! I visited my uncle and aunt and then saw my father in Santa Monica for what turned out to be the penultimate time. We picked up my son from college and he drove us home to northern California Sunday night. We were safe. Linda got the air conditioning fixed a week later.

Even at the time I didn’t see the trip as much of a sacrifice; it was an adventure.

God gave me the chance to help a needy friend and then overwhelmed me with blessings.

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The best one of all? That answer to prayer on an Arizona highway.

By the way, Linda no longer needs her wheelchair. Her remarkable story (including a reference to the southwest death march) can be found here: I am a Moon Jogger.

Rejoice with us! God answers prayer.
How about for you?