God, make it let up a little, my thoughts cried, my eyes fighting and failing to see past the walls of water whipping the ambulance. Sickly purple flashes tore up the darkness. Dim, faraway glows from street lights trickled through the flying rain, barely reaching me behind the wheel.
A brilliant blue-green fractured the storm; then black night. “There goes the power.” My partner sounded calmer than he looked when the next lightning bolt illuminated his face.
All I could see was water sheeting the windshield. My hands gripped the wheel, as though I could actually keep this truck in place if the river beneath our tires ran too high. The storm was Goliath, and I was the rock in David’s sling. And right now, I wasn’t even sure whose side God was on.
Somehow, we found our way to the patient—a man who’d decided a bruised elbow required an ambulance ride at 2AM in the middle of a Missouri hurricane. But, by the time we left the scene, I realized I could now see the road through the beating windshield wipers. A hint of relief flickered in my heart.
Later, as we left the hospital, blood finally replaced the adrenaline in my veins. Lightning ripped the distant east; leaves, branches, even trees lay strewn across the road. But what was left of the rain sprinkled down like a lullaby.
“Well, that was an adventure,” I told my partner.
“Too much of an adventure for me,” he replied.
I chuckled. God must have decided we weren’t ready to meet him face to face.