"There I was, trying to figure out the best way to explain that I’d just pumped $43 of gas into my van, and I had absolutely no way to pay for it."
I’m not sure why my hot-messness continues to surface at neighborhood gas stations.
Perhaps I’m spending too much time on the road.
Perhaps I’m supposed to start an evangelistic ministry for weary travelers.
Perhaps I’m just so deep in my daydreams about gas station coffee creamer buffets that I neglect basic life skills.
At any rate, it happened again this week, this time in Peotone – the halfway point of my 40-minute commute. I pulled up to the pump, selected the button for “pay inside,” lifted the lever, and waited.
Man, I need that coffee this morning, I thought.
I think I’ll go vanilla creamer this morning. Maybe add a shot of caramel. No, just vanilla, that’s less sugar and calories. That way I can have a raspberry flip, too.
No! That’s RIDICULOUS! I can’t have a pastry. I’ve already had breakfast, and I JUST recommitted to my diet 30 minutes ago! It’s way too early to cave. Yes, just coffee will be fine. Nice, hot coffee. With one…no two… individual creamers. Totally worth the splurge. I’ll have soup for lunch….
CLICK!
The audible indication of my tank’s abundance snapped me out of my reverie.
I opened the door to grab my purse, which was noticeably lighter than normal. Ugh oh, I thought as I began to furiously dig.
Crap.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I instantly realized my wallet was still at home, in a duffel bag – the duffel bag I’d taken to physical therapy the night before. The last time I saw my wallet was when I handed the medical receptionist my ID and insurance card. The last time I saw my wallet was right before my freefall into a full-blown emotional meltdown.
Somewhere between answering questions about my co-pay and the excruciating process of scheduling 14 follow-up appointments that I have no idea how I’ll keep, something in me snapped.
I can’t do this anymore. It’s all just way too much. How in the world am I supposed to maintain any kind of energy, health or sanity while keeping this crazy schedule as a commuting, full-time working mother and wife?!
I left that appointment in ugly tears, exhausted by the weight of the world.
I’d like to tell you I had this great moment of clarity, realized that I’m “too blessed to be stressed,” and pulled it all back together.
But alas, there I was the next morning, trying to figure out the best way to explain that I’d just pumped $43 of gas into my van, and I had absolutely no way to pay for it.
Unlike last time, at least I had my cell phone on me for this gas station debacle.
I tried calling Robert. No answer. I tried calling mom to see if she could track him down at work, but she was still at home. Mom offered to read a credit card number over the phone to me, but upon presenting this idea to the Casey’s attendant, I discovered they aren’t allowed to take payments that way.
Finally, the cashier offered, “You’re in here all the time. Why don’t you just write your information down? You can come back and pay this afternoon, before my shift is over.”
Phew! What a relief! Not ideal to add another 40 minutes of driving to my day, but at least I’m not going to jail.
Robert, having received my frantic voicemail, finally called me back. I stepped away from the counter for a few moments to explain the situation.
“Okay,” I told the attendant, hanging up the phone. “I’ll write that information down now, and I promise I’ll come back…”
“Don’t worry about it,” she cut me off. “It’s been covered.”
It took me a few moments to understand what she was saying. Then I saw a young woman standing in front of the counter, putting away her wallet.
Flabbergasted, I tried to protest, explaining I’d already formulated a self-sufficient plan. She just smiled and said, “It’s okay…I got it.”
I’m not even sure what I said. I fumbled through an awkward series of thank yous, and you didn’t have to do thats.
She looked me in the eye. “I overheard what happened. I thought, ‘That must be awful.’”
All at once, I was stunned, humbled, embarrassed, and deeply moved.
In the middle of it all, I regret that I didn’t think to ask for her name. I walked out the door behind my anonymous Casey’s hero. She jumped into her own minivan, told her kids to buckle up, and pulled away.
Now that the dust has settled, I keep wishing I could go back and explain to her just how much that one act of kindness meant to me. I don’t know how to reach her, but if I did, this is what I’d say...
“Thank you for being the light in my dreary morning.
“Thanks for being my reminder that God sees us in our weariness, and that there are still good people who listen to His prompting.
“Thank you for reminding me how powerful it is to know that you’ve been seen and truly understood.
“Thank you for reminding me that we’re all in this together.
“Thank you for reminding me that learning to accept generosity is an important discipline, too.
“Thanks for being my Casey’s hero. Your next tank of gas and cup of coffee are on me.”
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Don’t miss my third and final entry in this blog series: “Discoveries at a Philips 66.” Sure to be experienced and written about soon.