Four hours from our destination—that’s what the GPS said. At least that’s what it said before we smelled a caustic odor and pulled our forty-foot RV off the highway in Chicago. The whole family—my husband, V.J., our four kids, and I—were traveling from our home in Michigan to an annual family reunion in Wisconsin Dells, an outdoorsy vacation area. We’d left a week early to camp out and sightsee. Now it seemed we’d never get there. “I think it’s the back brakes,” V.J. said, checking out the left rear wheel.
“Now what do we do?” I asked.
“We need to find a Freightliner garage. We can’t take her just anywhere,” V.J. answered. Our RV was a Winnebago with a custom Freightliner chassis—one solid piece of forged steel that gave us enough power and stability to tow our Chevy behind us. A selling point had been the four hundred locations nationwide that could service us on the road. We weren’t far from O’Hare Airport. “There might be a Freightliner garage nearby,” I said.
“Open on a Sunday?” V.J. said. “We’ll probably be stuck here. Maybe even for days if they have to order parts.”
Ugh. This would ruin our vacation.
“I’ll type Freightliner into the GPS,” V.J. said. “See what it comes up with.”
V.J. located a Freightliner garage only ten miles away. Thank God for that GPS, I thought. How on earth did we ever get along without it?
We followed the prompts. Left turn here. Go 1.5 miles. Make a right. Our RV limped along. Something about the route, however, didn’t seem right. We left the busy highway, turning down a traffic-free road through an industrial complex seemingly devoid of people. Is this really the way to the garage? The GPS indicated that we’d arrived at our destination. We were at an anonymous-looking building. No garage in sight.
The kids were restless. V.J. and I were confused. “Guess we can’t trust the GPS after all,” V.J. said. “I don’t want to take the RV back out on the road unless we know where we’re going.”
I scanned the area. Not far from us, a lone man stood by a car. What was he doing there so late on a Sunday evening? We told the kids to stay in the RV while V.J. and I asked the stranger for directions. As we walked over, I saw the man grab something from his trunk—a toolbox.
“Hello,” I said. “We’re looking for a Freightliner garage. Is there one around here?”
“Miles away,” he said. “What’s your trouble?”
V.J. explained the situation, and the man went over to our RV. He rolled up his sleeves and opened his toolbox. Kneeling down near the back tire, he quickly diagnosed the problem. “One of your S-cam brakes is frozen,” he said. “That’s what caused the burning smell. I’m going to take it off. That still leaves you with three good brakes. You’ll be fine for now. Just make sure to have this replaced when you get home.”
How did he know all this? He must have seen the astonishment on my face. “Trust me,” he added. “I’m just here doing a side job. Monday to Saturday, I’m a Freightliner mechanic.”
Our GPS still had a perfect track record. But this location couldn’t have been programmed in. A different GPS must have taken over. My family calls it God’s Protection Service.