Last weekend was interesting. Right about the time that I generally think we are out of the woods for cold season, I caught a persistent cough that made me sound like a 20-year 3-pack-a-day smoker. Unfortunately, homeschooling parents get no sick days (unless extra screen time counts), so I went into the weekend feeling more tired than usual. Still, I had a camping trip planned for several months with some college buddies, and I was pretty confident I wasn’t contagious anymore, and I was excited to get a break from the kids by seeing old friends, sleeping in the dirt, and communing with nature. I was up until one packing on Friday night. On Saturday morning, I took off.

All went well for the first hour or so.

Then the car started shaking. Since the Corolla that I got from my brother-in-law has been beset with some of the maladies of automotive old age since I acquired it, I wasn’t initially concerned. However, when as the vibrations got worse and the accelerative power began to wane, I pulled off at milepost 71 to check and see what the problem was. I rolled up to the stop sign.

The car died. I turned the key. It died again.

I said a few choice words in various languages.

I got out of the car, which was blocking the lane. I put the car in neutral and pushed it off the side of the road and into the ditch. Surprisingly enough, given the age of the cars I am accustomed to driving, I had never found myself in this situation before.  Several things quickly became clear, none of them good. First, it was not oil levels or any other easy fix that an automotive novice could pull off. Second, we did not have roadside assistance on our policy for this vehicle. Third, it would cost several hundred dollars out of pocket for a tow to any local area shop. Fourth, no local area shops were open. Fifth, the camping trip wasn’t going to happen, at least not for me.

While I was attempting to figure all this out, I was interrupted by a variety of gawkers, car afficionados, and would-be good Samaritans offering to help. A state trooper helpfully informed me the car would be impounded if I couldn’t relocate it. A retired truck driver named Dan pulled over, looked at the engine, told me that one of the cylinders for some unknown reason was out and that it would be a spendy repair, probably requiring a new engine. He also told me that the “sunnabitch” tow truck drivers would take me for a ride (figuratively as well as literally) if I called them. He said he had a car trailer at his house and would tow me down to Vancouver for $450. I told him I’d consider it if I couldn’t figure out a better option.

At Jenn’s suggestion, I called one of our friends who happened to be on a men’s church retreat at Black Lake Bible Camp around 30 miles up the road. He said he would be there in 40 minutes.

He showed up with a newly purchased set of spark plug wrenches and other automotive tools and set to work to attempt a diagnosis and repair, if possible. He suggested that we try putting in a new set of spark plugs, so we went and bought some. It didn’t work, but at least we had knocked out the low-hanging fruit.

Then, his wife volunteered to rent a car dolly down in Vancouver, drive it up with their Excursion, and tow me back home if Jenn could watch their three boys while she was in transit. Not seeing a good alternative, I consented to be rescued. Two hours later, we got the Corolla hitched up and they towed it back to Vancouver while I followed in their Acura. We got back to our house, dropped her off and unloaded all my stuff, then towed the Corolla the rest of the way to the repair shop.

I slept for most of Sunday. (It was probably a good thing I didn’t make it to the camping trip.)

On Tuesday, the repair shop confirmed that the car needed a new engine, and as none was locally available, it was effectively dead and beyond resurrection.

In sum, it shouldn’t have been a great weekend.

But I am so grateful.

In an average day, I go from mundane activity to mundane activity with little to get my attention or remind me to look upward or outward. Medium-sized crises like these seem perfectly calibrated: small enough not to cause any permanent damage, but big enough to require resources beyond my immediate reach to address. When I encounter these medium-sized crises, the fog of the mundane momentarily lifts, and I am reminded of the great “cloud of witnesses” that surrounds me always, whether or not (usually not) I am conscious of it.

My friend gave up a day of his retreat to help me tow my car down to Vancouver before driving back up to Olympia that night. When it became clear that this would not be a simple repair, he located after-market Japanese engines in Seattle and offered to do the engine swap for me for free if I was willing to watch his three boys for the three or four days that it would take.

His wife gave up her Saturday to rent a trailer to come to my rescue.

Jenn’s mom offered to let us borrow her car for trips with the kids.

My parents offered to let us use my mom’s car, and she would go back to using the Ford Ranger pickup that had been on the road since at least 2004 (and had the bumper stickers to prove it).

Jenn’s dad offered us an interest-free loan to help us avoid going into more debt.

The mom of one of Sophie’s classmates offered their extra car to us for “whatever you feel comfortable paying.”

At a birthday party for the daughters of one of my high school friends today, another high school friend and his wife said they didn’t need their second car, took the keys, and shoved them into my hands.

In sum, over the past ten years or so, I have increasingly identified with George Bailey from “It’s A Wonderful Life”: a “warped, frustrated young man,” as Mr. Potter calls him, of whom much is expected, but whose hopes and ambitions are thwarted despite the fact (and often because of the fact) that he tries to do the right thing. Over this past week, I have identified with him in a very different and much happier way as we have been showered with generosity and support that we did not expect and do not feel we deserve. I have been reminded that Clarence’s message at the end of the movie, Capra-corny though it may be, is also true: No one is poor who has friends.

Thank you for being part of my “great cloud of witnesses.”

In the meantime, please let me know how I can be a meaningful part of your “great cloud of witnesses” as well.