The Great INR Misadventure: A Test of Faith

Some days, you wake up thinking it’s just another Monday. But yesterday? Yesterday was one of those days—the kind that makes you wonder if God is testing your faith or gently reminding you He’s got a plan, even when the road gets rough.

It was a day of kittens, car crashes, and an unshakable trust that the Lord would carry me through Birmingham, Alabama, no matter what.

The day started early—as it always does when you’re tending to 17 rescue kittens, God’s little creatures I’ve been called to care for. These scrappy survivors, once flea-bitten and half-starved strays, are now learning to trust, purr, and hope after weeks of baths, meds, and tender coaxing. They’re a full-time job in fur coats, a ministry of love—and yesterday, they tested my patience, throwing my schedule into chaos.

I rolled out of bed at 4:40 AM, bleary-eyed but praying for strength. The morning was its usual blur: bathroom (twice), handwashing, bed-making, and another bathroom trip (complete with a 5:06 AM fart cameo, a reminder even the body’s quirks are part of God’s design). By 5:29, I’d showered, folded towels, and taken my morning meds like clockwork—baby aspirin, B12, D3, zinc—thanking the Lord for the health to keep going. The kittens came next at 6:40 AM: feeding, cleaning, coaxing. It’s a labor of love, but it burns time like wildfire.

The mission for the day was my monthly INR check at UAB’s Kirklin Clinic. I’m on blood thinners, and my numbers need to be precise. Normally, I’m 30 minutes early, trusting in God’s timing. But the kittens had me off rhythm. Still, I made it to the car by 6:44 AM, heading out of Gadsden with just enough time, whispering a prayer for safe travels.

That’s when the day took a turn, as if the Lord was about to teach me a lesson in trust.

I reached Roebuck and pulled into a Chevron to gas up—only to realize I’d left my wallet at home. A punch to the gut. I should’ve turned back, but I felt a nudge, maybe from above, to check under the driver-side windshield visor. There, like a small miracle, was five dollars in cash. I prayed that five bucks would carry me to UAB and back, placing my trust in God’s provision.

I parked near a place called the Iron Skillet, across from the clinic—no cash beyond that five dollars, so the parking garage was out. It was 8:00 AM sharp. I hate being late. Missing my usual early arrival had me anxious, but I crossed the street with my iPad and backup iPhone, asking God to guide my steps.

At the anticoagulation clinic’s front desk, I saw His mercy—just one patient ahead. Ten minutes later, a tech called me in, pricked my finger, and read the numbers: 3.8. On the border, but within range. No lab work needed. A half-day saved. I whispered, “Thank You, Lord,” as relief washed over me.

I didn’t linger. My son, Miller, needed help with the kittens, and we had Chris at home. I keyed the GPS for Highway 280 to avoid downtown traffic, praying to outrun the storm rolling in.

The heavens opened. Thunder cracked. Sheets of rain hit the windshield. The roads shimmered like glass. And somewhere near the 280/I-59 junction, I noticed something terrifying—my iPhone was gone.

My heart raced. Had I dropped it at the Iron Skillet? My other phone was cradled on the dash for navigation, so I used it to call the lost phone—and it rang from the passenger seat. Praise God, crisis averted. But that second of distraction was all it took.

A white car darted past on the right, pulling an illegal pass. I swerved to avoid it. The tires lost grip. My car fishtailed. The world tilted and spun—rain, headlights, wet asphalt, heart hammering. In a split second, the car lurched upward, nearly flipping. There was no time to cry out to God—it happened that fast. But a jersey barrier caught the car, keeping it from rolling over.

BAM!

A jolt like a linebacker’s hit. My head slammed against something hard. The car shuddered, groaned, but didn’t die. I wasn’t totaled. But I wasn’t safe, either.

The other car? Gone. And I had no ID, no license, and now a damaged vehicle in a Birmingham thunderstorm. Fear crept in, but I felt God’s presence, urging me not to despair. I wasn’t about to face the cops with no explanation. Fight-or-flight kicked in. I chose flight, trusting the Lord to guide me.

I white-knuckled it out of Birmingham, the car shuddering, my head pounding. Rain poured, roads blurred, the vehicle threatening to hydroplane at every turn. I considered pulling over in Roebuck. Then Trussville. Then Argo. But a still, small voice kept saying, keep going.

Springville. That was the place. Familiar ground from custody exchanges with Miller years ago. I called him—thank God for that iPhone—and poured out the story, grateful for a son who’s a blessing. He was on his way.

By the time I reached Springville, I was a wreck. Dizzy. Nauseous. Head throbbing. Car barely holding together. Logic said I should’ve stopped miles earlier. But with no ID and no clear way to explain, I leaned on faith and grit, trusting God to see me through.

Miller found me, and we sorted it out from there. The car’s trashed. My head’s still aching. And I keep replaying that moment at the Chevron, wondering why I didn’t turn around. But then I remember: God doesn’t always call us to the easy path, but He never leaves us on it alone.

I made it home. Back to Southside. Back to the 17 kittens, God’s creatures who need me. Back to Miller, a gift from above who never lets me down. Back to a life that’s chaotic, fragile, exhausting—but held together by His grace.

Yesterday wasn’t just another day. It was a testament that sometimes, the difference between disaster and deliverance is five dollars under a visor, a backup iPhone, a jersey barrier, and the stubborn faith to trust that God’s got you, no matter how wild the storm.

Darryl