As The Story Turns …

The Stories of Our Lives (Part One)

This is part one in an ongoing series.

Picture it … Somewhere in the mountains of East Tennessee, January, 2026.

Those living in the South (and I’m talking about the United States, of course) may remember the unusual weather we had early that year. My story takes place a few weeks before ice and snow basically shut down the South.

Bear in mind that we of the South are never truly prepared for major winter weather. We hang on to the hope of our normal mild winters, refusing to accept even the hint of snow, or more accurately, ice. Okay, yeah, there’s always those few prepared for whatever. It is the South after all, and we have our share of preppers.

Anyway, back to the story …

This particular morning was COLD. Twelve degrees cold. My mom and I were heading back to the great Peach State of Georgia from the great Volunteer State of Tennessee. I’m a Tennessee girl to my bones, but I’ve learned to love Georgia after living here almost thirty years.

But hey, I traveled with two dogs that competed in Rally Obedience, so I know what works for me. What a man my husband was! I pointed. He packed. Even though he usually thought his way was better.

On travel days, I’m up, packed, and ready to hit the road early. Getting that trip over and done is a powerful catalyst for me, and frankly, it turns me into someone I can’t even recognize.

Everybody’s stuff needs to be ready and in the foyer so I can start my packing process when the rooster crows. This is no small thing for me. The night before, everyone goes to their room and packs! Just get it done is my philosophy. We’ll relax later—like when we’re sleeping so we can get up early and get out of here. (Chris was right, I am overbearing!)

But let’s not forget that I’m traveling with my mom. She too has her “quirks“. She’s 90 years old and she’ll tell you point-blank that her quirks are far more important than mine—or yours, or anyone else’s, for that matter. Yeah, she’s true southern spicy!

We started out well. Her stuff was together, although not completely moved to the foyer. But she knows I’ll bring it down.

I’m more than familiar with the timeline involved in these trips, and it was likely that we wouldn’t get moving before the fast-food places stopped serving breakfast, but I have a secret weapon … Hardee’s! They serve breakfast until noon, so no problem. And they have the best fast-food biscuits, in my humble opinion.

Things were moving along, and I had the car packed just the way I wanted it. Everything in its place. At least I thought so, but not so fast. I went to the kitchen expecting to get Mom into the car, but there she was with one big plastic bag full, while filling a second bag with whatever she could find in the pantry.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“It’s my dirty clothes so I can do laundry when we get to your house. I’m throwing a bunch of stuff we don’t need to leave behind in this bag. And I’m feeling weak, so I’m going to need that biscuit soon.”

Okay, for normal people, this shouldn’t be a problem, right? But I’m an overbearing nightmare, and this would require me to re-organize a few things in the car. Not to mention, I’ve now got to convince Mom to sit down and eat a few crackers to tide her over. She protests, but agrees. I leave her munching and off I go to add the “extra” to the car.

It only takes a few minutes, but when I get back to the kitchen, there is my 90-year-old mother on the floor. Don’t panic … she’s fine. Her head is in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, and I know what she’s doing. Or trying to do.

“I’ve already turned off the water under there, Mom”

“Are you sure? I can’t turn this knob.”

“Well, if you do, you’ll be turning the water back on.”

Convincing her she didn’t need to keep her head under the sink and that the water was off took a few minutes. And finally … we get in the car. Success!

Yeah, right.

First stop, biscuits, then gas, a stop at 7 Brew for Mom’s hot vanilla chai, and on to our favorite Italian restaurant for our usual pickup order. I hate cooking after a day of driving, so takeout for supper is one little indulgence I allow myself on travel days.

With biscuits in hand—or bag, as it were, next stop was the gas station. And here is where the real trouble begins. Such a normal, everyday task.

Yeah, right.

Remember, twelve degrees. Remember, Southern girl hanging on to her hope for a mild winter. I had a pair of mittens with me, but there was no way I was going to get gas odor on the mittens my husband had bought me when we lived in Colorado.

So out I go to pump gas in the cold with no gloves. I start the pump, click in the lever that keeps the gas pumping, and jump in the car to stay warm. When I hear the “click” that the gas is done, I go to finish up the process, and here the coming moments are a bit blurred.

I don’t know how or why it happened. Yes, the lever on the gas nozzle was un-clicked. No, I wasn’t pressing the gas nozzle.

But for whatever reason, when I remove the nozzle, gas blasted out of the tank all over me. This wasn’t just a little gas. Projectile gas drenched me.

I was soaked in gasoline, in shock, and holding that gas nozzle with my un-gloved hand in twelve degree temperatures.

Life as I knew it momentarily stopped. I hadn’t even bothered to put on a coat (which is normal for us southerners hanging on to our hope of a mild winter). Shock forced me, however, to glance around, looking, hoping, for anyone who could tell me what to do, or at least console me.

There was a car behind me. I knew the lady in the car had seen what happened because she had the same look of shock I’m sure I had. She raised her hands and shrugged her shoulders. I shrugged back, and we shared a moment of traumatic camaraderie.

As my shock faded, I was able to move through the steps to end this horror. I got into the car, believing we would at last move forward.

Yeah, right.

The moment I got in the car, my mother, the woman who birthed me and raised me, said, “Ooh … what did you do? You stink!”

Moving forward would not come easily.

I explain, as best I can, what happened and attempt to get myself together so we could move on to the next stop—7 Brew. Mom continues to tell me how bad I stink. Realizing that the concentrated smell of gas would waft out when I opened the car window to place my order, I roll down the windows to “air-out” the smell.

Twelve degrees. Ninety-year-old mother. Yes, I kept the windows down. We weren’t driving far. Not even a mile. Well, maybe a mile, but no more, and her seat heater was on high.

As if I didn’t know.

“Mom, please. Let’s just pick up our order and head over the mountain, okay. I can’t help that I stink.”

“Well, you can’t go into the restaurant smelling like this. People are trying to eat.”

“And what do you expect me to do? Should I drive on and leave the order we placed?”

“No, of course not. I’ll go in and get it. You pull right up to the door and that nice young man at the counter will carry it out for me.”

I hesitate because, in full transparency, I order enough food for two complete meals for everyone in my house, and that much Italian food could be heavy for my mom to carry. But I had seen this restaurant carry food out for patrons, so I went with her plan.

After pulling up to the door, Mom went in.

When I turn around, here comes my 90-year-old mom trying to carry those heavy bags by herself.

At this point, the why didn’t even matter. Grabbing the heavy bags, I directed Mom to the car, placed the food into the cooler and jumped behind the wheel so we could get going.

Yeah, right.

Once again, Mom reminds me how bad I smell and now tells me the smell is making her nauseous.

“Janet, you have got to get that smell out of here. I’m nauseous, and you’re going to pass out from the fumes.”

I’m a crazy person by now and would prefer to pass out, fumes or not. Knowing I had no choice but to change clothes, I refused to drive back to Mom’s house. With her continuing to tell me how bad I smell, I pull out of the parking lot and head to the only place that came to mind.

I didn’t want to go there, but I saw no other choice. When I pulled into the hospital, Mom lost it thinking I was going to the ER because of gas fumes. I wasn’t going to ER, nor was I passing out. However, I knew the hospital wouldn’t give me a second look when I walked in and went to the restroom.

“Mom, just lock the doors and stay here. I won’t be long.” I went to the back of the car and, because I’m an overbearing nightmare, everything I needed was there at hand.

Thanks to traveling with dogs, I always put several plastic grocery bags in the front zipper pocket of my suitcase. And because that same suitcase was accessible as planned, grabbing a grocery bag and clean clothes was easy-peasy.

I dashed into the hospital, found the public restroom, changed my clothes (putting the stinky ones in the grocery bag but not tying the bag), and cleaned myself up at the sink. After my quick pit-stop, the smell was gone as much as possible.

When I returned to the car, Mom didn’t say a word. I suppose by this time she had figured out I was too close to the edge to push much further.

I drive out of the hospital parking lot and head over the mountain towards Asheville.

Neither of us said a word. I drove in silence. Mom sat, holding our bag of biscuits. A few miles down the interstate, out of the silence I hear …

“Well, I guess we can eat our biscuits now.”

I laughed. I guffawed. Because it was in that moment that I felt a spark of real joy return to me. After losing my husband to pancreatic cancer only months earlier, I realized God was touching me and bringing me to a place where I could momentarily step away from my grief and laugh again.

The immensity of this revelation in the midst of my sorrow is immeasurable. This wasn’t a moment of pulling myself together after a stressful morning, or the never-ending pretense that “all was well” so everyone could feel comfortable around me. This was the discovery that God was beginning a work in my fatigued, torn, and devastated heart.

“A joyful heart is good medicine,
but a crushed spirit dries up the bones”
~ Proverbs 17:22

This true story is the opening for a series I call, “The Stories Of Our Lives.” 

Our life-stories may feel lumped together and never-ending, but the end does come, and our next story begins. It always does.

Through this series, I share how God is writing my story through grief to restore the joy only He can give.

My prayer is that my journey will in some way help and encourage you on your journey and point you to the one who is able to carry us through our most difficult times … Jesus Christ.

Part 2: I Don’t Have A Hallelujah
I’ll be posting twice a week, on Tuesday and Thursday, as I complete this series.

“When anxiety was great within me,
Your consolation brought me joy.”
~ Psalm 94:19

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