Around noon, it began to flurry, and in a flash, it was full-on snowing. Our office closed, and a very sweet and obliging coworker of mine with a 4-wheel drive SUV offered to drive me home, as my house is on the way to his apartment and I drive a Ford Focus.
The 9-mile trip took about three hours.
Three. Hours.
In that time, every exit we took - every way we tried to get to my house - was blocked by accidents. Down the off ramp from the highway; on the side road we took to try to circumvent the exit; people swerving and stalling and getting stranded all around us. I've never been so scared in a snowstorm in my life - and I'm from Pennsylvania.
At one point, after we realized we had turned around twice and were trying to think of another way to get back to the main road, I started to panic. We're not going to make it, I thought. I was in a dress and a cardigan; my tights were super cute but not at all what you'd call warm. I hadn't eaten since breakfast; we had no water, no food, and everywhere around us people were stranded, cars sideways, four-ways flashing, getting out of their cars and walking.
For the first time in a long time, I started to ask God for help. Please get us home, I whispered inwardly. Please don't let us get stranded. I'm so scared.
I tried not to show my friend how terrified I was, but he sensed it and put his hand on my arm.
"Are you nervous?" he asked. "Don't worry, we'll be fine. I'll get you home."
The exit off the highway.
No one could get up the hill.
Sometimes my prayers are answered when I don't even realize I'm praying. Grace surprises me sometimes. And so it should, I suppose.
"I'll get you home," he said.
And he did.
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