Father John was out making the rounds, visiting the sick in his mountain parish after the heavy rainstorms; he drove from patient to patient in his trusty VW Bug. Only on this last leg of his rounds, the VW was anything but reliable, and his was the patience that was being visited with trials. The car sputtered and choked and died on him time and again. Father John would get out, fiddle with it a bit, coaxing it back to life a few hundred meters more before it would die again. Finally, it simply gave up the ghost, and no fiddling or cajoling could elicit any further signs of life from the Bug.Under these new circumstances, Father John took a look around, considering how he might continue his visits to the sick. It was only at this point that he noticed the frightful fact—it made his heart skip a beat—the bridge over the mountain stream, a mere hundred yards before him, had been washed out by the torrent in the storm.
Since there was no going forward, he took a seat in the car to think things out. He chanced to try the ignition again; the motor leapt to life and purred all the way home. He never did need to take the car to the mechanic. After all, he thought to himself, the problem was really not with the car. That was only his Guardian Angel’s way of keeping him from driving off into the abyss.