I sped down 38th Street on my way to meet one of three or four girls I mentored. My college student staple–a pizza pretzel in a white paper bag, sat on the floor of my still frozen, five-speed Renault. A half-sharpened, Maybelline eyeliner pencil rolled back and forth in the dip of my denim skirt every time I shifted gears, and I hoped the spindles of my worn heels wouldn’t get snagged on the frayed edges of the floor pad that covered a smallish hole I didn’t have time to repair.
At the light, I felt a tightening in my chest and it was difficult to breathe. I wondered if I were having a panic attack.
I swallowed as hard as I could and somehow managed to whip the car into a convenience store parking lot.
And while I prayed for relief from this sudden scare, it occurred to me that I should also pray that God would show me exactly what was going on.
Why am I feeling this way? Do I need medical attention? Please, I begged. Show me what’s wrong.
Then came what I would later call my Queen Esther moment: When her cousin, Mordecai tells her to wake up and realize she will likely be killed with all the other Jews if she doesn’t help them, she grows a backbone and becomes an entirely different person.
As for me, when I turned off 38th Street, I slammed on my brakes to avoid a collision with what stood before me. My mouth dropped open as I observed something I had never seen before, nor have I ever seen since.
I saw a tow truck . . . being towed. Crystal clear. Enough said.