Chick-Fil-A

On our road-trip to Duck, North Carolina, we followed the directions of our faithful navigator, the G.P.S. All went well, until we came to a more congested area, where several cities seemed to blend together amidst tunnels and bridges.

Our G.P.S got mixed up. Was it all that water? It kept sending us to loading decks of harbors and we got lost in a bad area. Since the gas-tank was empty and all three of us had to use to restroom, we had no choice but find the least offensive pit-stop.

Usually men don’t ask for direction, but our son flagged down a distinguished looking gentleman, who didn’t seem to belong in this part of town and asked the man directions.
When he came back to the car, he explained to us how to get out of the area, and he also requested to stop at a restaurant that the man had recommended.

It was called Chick Fil A.

We had been snacking on some fruit and nuts we brought from home, but we were getting hungry for some real food.

Just a few weeks ago, a vacation with the three of us had seemed like an impossible dream, yet here we were, on our way to the beach, leaving 102 degree temperatures.
It was like a miracle.
My husband had been unemployed for a long time now, and when his brother suggested we come and share a beach-house with him and his family, I didn’t think we could afford the trip. A wealthy member from his parish invited my brother-in-law and family to use their huge beach-home for a few weeks. It was located on an island, a small community, surrounded by water.

Yet when I looked at my work-calender I realized nobody would need me during one of those weeks. So I would not be losing any potential income.

Also, I had a ‘stash’ in my drawer. I had saved cash, gift-credit cards, and gift-certificates that I received from parents of the little ones. I was truly spoiled last Christmas!

We found the restaurant, a cute place, friendly service and the food was awesome and we left feeling much better. Back on the road again!

We were almost to a toll-booth when I yelled, "My purse!"

My husband slowed down and looked at me in disbelief, while I started summing up the contents of my purse. I was in tears and felt so stupid!

"I am so sorry," I kept saying it, till my son said, "Stop saying that, Mom, it will be okay!"

Our driver made a U-turn across the grassy media and turned around. He was driving fast, and I tried to stop crying.

My son and I ran in together, but the purse was no longer hanging on the chair. People were staring at us. Well, mostly at me, since I was crying.

Then one lady, sitting nearby the table we had just left, pointed to the cash register. "The waitress took your purse over there!"

My son did the talking, I was crying too hard.

Somebody started reaching in a cabinet behind the counter,  but another woman pushed her out of the way and threw a row of questions at me, "What color is your purse, what is your name, what is in your purse?"

"For cryin-out-loud, give her the damned purse.!" Someone said.

A server pushed my purse into my hands, her eyes filled with tears. I took the purse and hugged her as hard as I could. Soon, several girls joined in and we had a big group-hug of teary women. They all understood the devastation of losing a purse!