We were moving from the land of perpetual frost (at least so it seemed in the winter) to the land of perpetual sun.
The Midwest to the West. In February or maybe March.
My baby's nanny graciously agreed to drive with me, and we picked up my just turned-five-year-old who had been with my parents in Montana. We laughed and sang and talked (even the baby in her cute almost-one chatter). Looking forward to seeing my husband, my kid's daddy, who had moved ahead of us. Just enjoying the adventure.
Until we hit a blizzard in Wyoming.
Far from our destination.
Far from any town or exit at all.
Hands white-knuckling the steering wheel, I squinted into the barrage of snow suddenly pounding the windshield. The wipers, doing their best to keep up, groaned against the heavy wet flakes. And my kids whispered their fear while the nanny sang softly.
I prayed. Even as the darkness closed in. Even as semi's roared past, spraying my already troubled windshield. I couldn't see. I was tired. I had two kids relying on me for their safety.
I cried out to my God.
An old ranch pickup passed us. Rusty. Blue. Dented. Again spraying wet. But then it pulled in front of our car and slowed. Two red tail lights, like a beacon, seemed to say, "Follow Me."
I trained my eyes on those lights. Not knowing if we were still on the road. Trusting that we were.
Then as suddenly as the blizzard started, it stopped. The road was clear and dry. The skies without moisture showed stars again.
An exit appeared seemingly from nowhere. And the pickup, blinking its signal like a wink to us, drove away.
Its job fulfilled.