When the Bottom Falls Out

I inched my way through the predawn fog to pick up my orange juice in downtown Houston. I’d run it to San Antonio for an early afternoon delivery. Two hundred easy miles out Interstate 10. On the surface it sounded like a dream trip. But I knew better. I’d already looked at the satellite views and knew I was in for quite the challenge before the sun even came up.

 

I found my pick up point and parked in the street. There was no other place. I surveyed the area and prayed. It would take an absolutely perfect set up in order to get my 53 foot trailer into their lot.  Getting out would be almost impossible.

 

By God’s grace, I crossed four lanes of traffic to the left then wheeled sharp right into their tiny dock area. Using every inch of real estate, I set up and backed my trailer right into the door. Grateful for God’s anointing, I set about trying to develop a preliminary plan on how I was going to work through the maze at my delivery point in downtown San Antonio.

 

When I arrived, the guard told me they didn’t have anyone there to unload me and told me to go to a dirt lot two blocks away from their facility. I slowly maneuvered through their facility, trying to determine when the bomb had gone off. Trucks, trailers, cars and pickups were parked without rhyme or reason throughout the complex, effectively blocking the path I had to go. Pallets, truck parts and various pieces of scrap identified the facility more as a junk yard rather than a fresh milk and orange juice facility.

 

At long last I located the rear gate, crept through the narrow opening and turned right. Two blocks later I spotted the dirt lot. It looked hard packed and solid, a necessity with 43,000 pounds of orange juice in the trailer. I wheeled in and made a u-turn to position my truck to pull right out. Suddenly, the front of my truck fell about six feet and water splashed over my hood.

 

Without a conscious thought of what was happening, I instantly jammed the transmission in reverse, flipped to four-wheel drive and floored the accelerator. My back four wheels spun wildly, smoke billowing from them. My truck and trailer began to jackknife but I kept going.

 

At long last, my front wheels climbed over the top of the hole. My truck was safe. I pulled out onto a side street away from traffic and inspected my truck for damage. There was none visible. Just an enormous amount of mud completely covering the front of my truck.

 

A couple of business owners ran over to make sure I was alright. They told me a water main had ruptured in the area the day before. Though the surface of the lot appeared dry and solidly packed, it was not. The ground beneath had eroded. My entire truck and trailer could have fallen in. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. Not one jar of orange juice was broken either.

 

I sat and thanked God for His divine intervention and protection. What could have been a tragedy turned out to be a praise report. I don’t know how people drive a truck without God. I’m grateful that I have Him. I lived to drive another day. I learned in a harrowing way that when the bottom falls out of my life, God’s grace really is sufficient.

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