Many years later, long after college, events took me back to
Houston for a summer speaking engagement. My hosts for the
weekend picked me up at the airport, I climbed alone into the
backseat, and they proceeded to drive me toward the hotel
where I’d be staying—a route that diverted us for several miles
onto that old familiar 59 North.
Being the kind, hospitable women they were, they
continued to chat merrily as we sped past the various reflective
signs on the highway. I’m not sure they even noticed how
gradually quiet I was becoming in the back. But the mile marker
numbers we were passing weren’t just numbers to me; they
were counting up to that one specific exit number that Satan
was counting down in my mind with each condemning second.
Flashbacks flooded. Tears began forming. I was fighting an old
foe inside, and the spiritual battle was threatening to come
spilling out all over.
And then... there it was. The exit ramp. The one I’d taken
far too many times.
I couldn’t breathe. My heart beat fast. My palms moistened
with sweat.