Cross the border without my passport? Never. My wife and I had traveled all the way from Iowa with church friends to build homes in Reynosa, Mexico. At least that was the plan.
We’d gotten as far as an overnight stay at a motel in McAllen, Texas, when I realized my passport was missing. I knew I’d had it when I woke up that morning. That meant it had to
be somewhere between the motel and a restaurant down the street where we’d gone for coffee.
But I’d been back and forth to the gas station, the restaurant and the motel with no luck. I could have dropped it anywhere. It might be swept up in a trash bin by now, for all I knew.
I laid down on the bed and shut my eyes. I’d done all I could. “I’m leaving it up to you, God. Only you can get me to Mexico.”
The phone rang. “Mr. Pott, this is the front desk. We’ve got your passport, sir.”
I shot out of bed and bounded to the desk. “A gentleman found it on the road in front of the gas station. The gas station attendant remembered you and directed the man here.”
God got me to Mexico—who knew where he’d take me next?
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