The sun had set. We were ready to be home after a great out-of-state trip.

As we exited the turnpike, a work crew was repairing the toll booth that we usually breeze through with our transponder. So, Mike quickly turned into the exact-change lane behind two cars. We soon realized nothing was happening. The car in the booth area simply sat, the toll gate barring the way. No arm reached out the window to toss coins in the basket. After more than five minutes sitting and wondering what was going on, I decided to find out.

I got two tracts out of my purse, stepped out of our van and walked up to the driver’s side of a navy blue SUV.

“What’s wrong, Hon?” I asked.

A young woman looked up at me. “I need twelve more cents for the toll.”

I went back to our car and grabbed some change.

Weaving back through the cars, I returned to “the damsel in distress.” I tossed twelve cents in the basket, but the indicator still showed a bright red “1!” I threw a quarter in the basket and the gate swung open.

“God loves you, Girlfriend,” I said, leaning toward the driver and handing her a tract. “He’s taking care of you.”