We got back from Mexico recently. I’ve traveled to Mexico three times through the skyways, and I’ve always taken a certain medicine upon exiting the country via airplane. The instruction I received stated that I should do it this way, therefore I did it.
I’ve never had any issues with the medicine. I have had problems with the after-effects of the food I ate while I was there, which is the main reason I take the medicine.
Let’s say that the normal course within the confines of my internal regions stayed somewhat regular. And I thank God for that. What a blessing that was.
I must say that instead of using this medication according to the word-of-mouth directions, I should have paused my earnest desire to be well and read the exact directions on the box via copy and paste into the Google Translate app on my phone.
However, I did not consider doing this until it was too late. Way, way, way too late.
As had become my habit, I ingested this medication on the flight out of Mexico into Dallas, TX. The Biscoff and can of Coca-Cola worked wondrously in getting the medication to slip-slide down the enveloping darkness of my giraffe-esque esophagus.
All was well.
We landed in Dallas, and, by the working of miracles outside of human possibilities, we made it to our connecting flight into Tulsa, OK.
Truly, it was a miracle we made it onto the flight. We had to walk at least a mile from the arrival gate to Customs. We picked up the baggage, dropped it off, went through TSA, and then Skylinked our way through terminals D, C, B, and A before making it to our departing gate. This achievement was a miracle for which we have praised God endlessly. There were more miracles to happen later in the day.
We landed in Tulsa, visited with family, and stopped by Braum’s before the last leg of our journey home to Missouri.
I should not have ordered the double-cheeseburger meal. I admit my faults. I should have been content with a small fry, but we must live and learn, right? Right, although unfortunate.
We were traveling down I-44 at a pretty good clip, nearing the PikePass Pay Stations, when I felt a weight the size of a cannonball hit me right in the stomach.
I know that feeling.
I turned toward Charity in the passenger seat and said, “Hon, we need to pray.”
She looked at me. “Okay. We’ll do that.” The words she didn’t say were, “At some point today. I’m exhausted and feel like sleeping right now.”
I knew she didn’t intend to pray anytime soon, so I said, “Honey, we must pray now. I need to stop at the Kum and Go up ahead, but I don’t know if I can make it.”
She immediately started fasting and praying, “Oh, dear Heavenly Father!” A certain desperation crept into her voice that only comes in extremely emergent situations.
We passed the PikePass stations at a speed that our vehicle had never gone before. The speedometer needle reached the numbers nine and five.
“Oh, God!” I yelled toward the blue sky stretching across the expanse of the windshield, “I’m begging You to please help me! I can’t do it on my own, Lord! We need Divine intervention here!”
I exited the interstate at a personal record speed of seventy-five miles an hour.
I slammed on the brakes and threw the car in park in the middle of the road. I bolted out of the vehicle and ran in a somewhat crooked jolting manner to the nearest water closet.
I ran through the gas station. I veered around the displays. I dodged those exiting my desired destination.
And here’s where another miracle happened. The stall door was wide open.
The truth is that if the stall had been occupied by another congregant of my kind, I would have chucked that poor soul through the wall to have sole possession of that white porcelain.
After I had finished, I realized that I had streaked through the station at an alarming rate of speed, and I concluded that I should do so on my way out.
The point was to make people believe that I was simply in a hurry to get somewhere other than where I had just been, although my previous destination was the most important one of my life up to this point.
I jogged back to the car, and we started down the road. And I wish I could say we made it home without any more issues.
But we did not. We stopped a summation of six times on this one-way trip to the precious little house that we call our home.
And brother, there are four gas stations and two stores that I will never be able to show my face in again.
The moral of the story? Never take medication whose directions are in a foreign language. And if you must take foreign medication, take it in the comfort of your home.
to the many trips I took this past week,
Caleb
caneymountainblog.com 