The Perfect Day

When Leanna and I came back to our car last Tuesday, we first thought we were on the wrong street. No, my car was no longer there and somehow that dawning revelation affected my internal organs. It was a sick feeling.

We only had one day in San Francisco and having my rent-a-car stolen was not what I had planned. When I turned to Leanna she smiled and said, “That’s what God invented insurance for,” and we both hugged each other. I had a real adventure on my hands to see how we would get back to Sacramento.

In another minute or two I remembered my journal and Bible were in that car. My smile changing as my big fat lip poked out in a pout.

“Our books,” I groaned.

Convinced my grandkids will read my journals; the loss began to sink in. Millions no doubt would some day have flocked to my own wing at the Smithsonian in hopes to glimpse the personal Bible of Troy Brewer. This theft was totally unacceptable.

Enter Homer. The 360-pound African American homeless brother with 5 layers of clothes, dreadlocks like the Predator and a sign around his neck that reads, “A cigarette would help.”

“You think your car been stolen? It was…by the city.” Homer started laughing and when he did he coughed up half a lung. His bright yellow teeth made me smile too because it was funny that he thought it was funny. So there we were, me laughing at him laughing at me. I saw the sign he pointed to with a worn out glove. It said no parking from 3-6. I had parked at the meter sometime around 2:30 and now it was 3:40. My car had been impounded.

We chatted with Homer for a while and had coffee together. He had squatted in Dallas, Austin and Ft worth for a time. He resides now near the piers.

After 2.3 miles and a $20 ride with Amin the Ethiopian, we enter the environmentally friendly office of impounded cars. Amin was a neat guy and if you think about it, pray for him. He’s here legally and trying his hardest to make things happen. 22 years old, full of promise and wanting to live the dream of an American. He said he had always wanted to see a rodeo.

I was seeing a side of San Francisco that’s most folks don’t. This was the park-in-a-no-parking-zone tour.

On the other side of bulletproof glass loaded with Obama stickers and something that said, “Send bread not bombs” sat Erica. Erica was the 5^th daughter of Mexican immigrants. I learn things about people because my hillbilly accent triggers people to ask me where I’m from. She had family just south of San Antonio. Around us people screamed and protested but it was all blurry.

After a few minutes chit-chat she regretfully handed us a recycled piece of paper with a fine of $244.00 printed on it.

We began laughing again, the way men would laugh after they came out of Vietnam. I said, “C’mon Erica, help us. Were nice, your nice and nice people help each other.”

She wrote down an address and said if we hurried to the courthouse we could catch a judge before five. We might get it dismissed.

We thanked her and went looking for our rented Mazda 6. There it was, with another ticket on the windshield for an additional $70. What a wonderful racket this city has. I scanned the eco-friendly processed paper for any sign of mercy. With none there, we were driving around looking for the courthouse.

A few minutes later we ran up the courthouse steps past 2 men going through a mock gay marriage and looking for the right office because the judge leaves at five. The judge, who was Croatian, granted us the last hearing of the day. In a thick Eastern European accent he dismissed the $70 ticket but didn’t the other. He had however, once bought an authentic pair of Cowboy Boots at DFW airport.

Thirty minutes later, Leanna and I caught the last boat out for a sunset cruise on the bay.

The guy running the boat was named Paul and had been painting his pots for this months crab season. Paul had friends in Galveston that fish for shrimp. Paul was a neat guy.

My bride and me were on the back of the boat giggling about our whirlwind tour and about to go under the Golden Gate Bridge. We love this crazy journey. Paul picked up my Iphone and took a picture. The end of a perfect day.

You see, you can be mad over things gone wrong or you can have real justice in enjoying the ride anyway.

I think sometimes God gives us victory through slaying the giants in our lives. I love being a giant killer but I think other times we have victory when the giants don’t matter.

It turned out to be one of the most romantic and loving evenings of our twenty-year marriage. Perfect weather, the sun going down into the ocean, a miracle moment.

I learned a long time ago, a move of God delayed is not a move of God denied. Sometimes the miraculous follows the ridiculous.

Contact the Brewer @www.FreshFromTheBrewer.com