Dang! I put the wrong fuel in today.

Dang! I put the wrong fuel in today.

It wasn’t even my car. It was a hire van. Three people had volunteered to help pack in. One has cancer; another has his wife being treated for cancer. They gave up a lot to be there. The mission tomorrow is to help 150 people empathise with extreme poverty — specifically the currently 831 million people living on under $3 a day.

That didn’t seem to mean anything as I was trying to put unleaded into the van. All I was thinking was, why isn’t this working properly? It’s going to take me an age to fill the tank. I had a meeting with a school chaplain who was trying to help 1,200 people grow their hearts of compassion with the charity in just over an hour. I hadn’t eaten all day, as we were caught up with picking up the van and then getting the right team in place. I was irked that the hire place had the wrong van for us (there was a problem with the returned van and they needed a tyre mechanic to come out). I couldn’t wait. Time was a luxury I didn’t have.

I had two attempts at fuelling, as it kept cutting out. I only put in 7 or 8 litres. I had to pay, and upon returning for round three, it hit me. DANG!

Dang indeed. What a wally. Why now? I’m an idiot. The cycle was starting… usually with an expletive under my breath and then a barrage of self-flagellation.

I was queuing up and then said to the person behind the counter, “I’ve just put the wrong fuel in.” I wasn’t expecting them to say anything, as I was paralysed and about to bring on the self-berating. I sighed and huffed.

The lady in front turned to me and said,

“It’s OK. Take a moment. Breathe. It’s not as bad as you are thinking right now. Can I help you?”

She stopped me in my tracks. I didn’t know what to say. She offered me counsel right there — interrupted that cycle of self-loathing.

One of the people in the garage said not to turn the engine on, as it would flood the engine.

I went out, called the roadside assist number, and set the help mechanic in motion. That lady came back out and said, “Can I take you anywhere or get you anything?”

I was then told that I needed to wait by the vehicle until the AA came — and it would be around 1–2 hours, as it involved another subgroup that deals with fuelling.

As I waited, I took the call with the chaplain. The usual pleasantries start with “How are you?” I shared, “Well, I’ve seen better days,” and went on to explain. She just said, “Can I pray for you?” There, sitting in the cab of a Luton van, waiting for a roadside fuel mechanic, I was prayed for by a chaplain 30 miles away.

Then my son turned up. He had a freshly made bagel and a flask of tea. He sat with me and we caught up for 30 minutes, then went off. Twenty minutes later, the mechanic came and drained the fuel. He said I was lucky, as he nearly didn’t come today — it was kind of time for him to call it a night — but he thought he could squeeze one more person in (and I was relatively nearby). He said I was also lucky that I didn’t start the van. He said it should be OK: just fill her right up, then to avoid vapours, wait until she’s half full and refill to the top again.

Strange day. Somehow, among all that happened, help found its way to me through a series of encounters with “angels”.

POSTSCRIPT:

As I went to pay for the fuel (the whole tank one). The two chaps at the garage said. You want the good news or bad news. "Well the Bad News is ... you put the wrong fuel in again".... "The good news is it's a joke!". 

Too soon? 

Nah, I did laugh...