We Barely Survived

Yesterday, everything was clicking for us. Ruthie saw some of the Sudanese Refugees who she hadn't seen in a while, and she had a great time reconnecting with them. I spent the morning writing and catching up on e-mails.

But disaster hovered over us like a dark thing that hangs over someone...

I call Tim Cummins "Uncle Tim," because in missionary culture that's what you call someone who you look up to. So Uncle Tim called me with an invitation to go to El Torero's, a mexican restaurant.

I was recently a finalist in a contest to write a column for McSweeney's Internet Concern, but I didn't quite get the gig. As Uncle Tim, his son Jesse, and I sat there discussing my ongoing mission to connect the immigrant/refugee community with Atlanta's creative scene, we decided to go to Borders and scope out magazines where my writing might fit.

Little did we know, a call would come in that would change the face of our day forever...

I was able to write down seventeen different magazines where I am going to pitch stories. We also found a great resource in the Novel & Short Story Writer's Market, which I will purchase as soon as I have the cash. It would pay for itself in one published piece.

In the midst of my research, the phone rang. The sky grew dark. Lightning crashed. Actually, scratch that. The weather pretty much stayed the same.

It was Ruthie on the other end. Our Buick, which was recently donated to us and which we recently had to pay a hefty sales tax on thanks to Georgia's crazy laws, had died on the expressway. Ruthie had just been able to pull it off the shoulder, and was waiting for rescue. Mayhem ensued.

As Ruthie fought off State Farm rescue attempts and random tow truck drivers who wanted to make a quick buck, we zoomed toward her at a harrowing speed, or more specifically as fast as the speed limit allowed.

When we arrived, she was nearly dead. Actually, she was fine, but she had to go to the bathroom. Uncle Tim worked it out to have the car towed to a trustworthy mechanic, and we went home, having barely survived the whole ordeal.

That evening, as Eric and I jogged around Stone Mountain, feeling the August heat boiling our blood, we felt strangely alive. Something about narrowly avoided death does that to you. Or at least something about running after something unfortunate happened. Or something about dealing easily with a minor setback. Actually, I think it just felt good to be out running again.