My husband, Gil, and I had finally reached Perry, Georgia, a quaint little town west of Savannah. We’d been RVing for weeks, touring the South and exploring the cities and towns tucked along the way. Gil guided us through the tree-lined streets, dotted with boutiques and charming restaurants. There was so much to see! I looked over and shot Gil a smile. But he was grimacing. “Gil, what’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, flatly. “I’m fine.”
I could tell by his clenched jaw and stiff grip on the wheel that he was in pain. “Gil, what’s the matter?” I pressed.
“Well…I don’t want to ruin our trip, but my arthritis has been flaring up for the past few hours. I should probably get to a doctor,” he admitted.
A doctor! I knew he had to be in severe pain to mention that. Gil was always so strong. Where would we find help out here though? We’d never been to Perry, and the nearest hospital or clinic could be miles away. I kept my eyes peeled while Gil steered us down the main road in town.
We passed a hardware store, an ice-cream shop, a library…everything but a clinic or hospital. It had been almost an hour and now we were in the neighboring town of Warner Robins. Every second that passed, my worry grew. “The pain is getting worse,” said Gil. Lord, please send us a sign to let us know you’re with us, I prayed aloud.
Just then, we drove by a church. A sign with large, bold letters stood out front, almost as if it were calling out to us. Gill and I saw it at the same time. “Are you looking for a sign from God? Well here it is.” Gil let out a loud, hearty laugh, and so did I. I felt my worry disappear. I could tell Gil was less tense too.
Just down the street, there stood another sign. One for a walk-in clinic.
