There was a power outage in New York City last Saturday. It didn’t affect my neighborhood, so I was unaware of it until Sunday morning when I got up and saw I had a message on my phone. It was from my 23-year old son, who works until 11 p.m.
“Hi Mom,” he said, “Just want you to know there is a blackout so the trains aren’t running, and I’ll be late. If you wake up at 2 a.m. and I’m not there, that’s why.”
I was grateful he’d thought to call, especially since I often wake in the night. That night I hadn’t, but on hearing the message I peeked into his room. He was there, fast asleep.
When he got up around 2 p.m. to go to work I noticed he was walking kind of oddly. “I’m sore!” he said, “I walked all the way home.”
That’s eight miles. At the end of an eight-hour shift.
Aghast, I asked why he didn’t take a cab or a bus? Apparently there weren’t any. So he walked—through good neighborhoods and bad ones, and arrived home at 3:30 a.m. His phone ran out of battery halfway here.
I made my son a pot of coffee, and sent up profuse prayers of thanks as I made him a solid breakfast. How many times, I wondered, has God had stepped into my life to prevent crises and accidents, without my knowledge? I said thanks for those unknown moments of grace, too.
Then I brought food to my ravenous and tired son, and talked to him about alternative options should such a situation ever happen again.
