My 2016 Tesla Model X died in the middle of the road as I was leaving Scheels with my toddler in the back seat. We had just spent an hour riding the indoor ferris wheel and getting her new athletic shoes. Despite being marketed as a luxury car, it died like a rusty, 1958 Buick and–for me–it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

My husband’s new acquaintance-friend from our office brought him to us and then gave us a ride home. When my husband met us in our 176 square foot camper, I was already crying. We curled up on our bed (because it’s not like we have a couch or anything) and my tears began to flow.

“Break-downs are much harder when we don’t know when we will get money again, or how much it will be this time,” I said, and, “That Tesla feels like the worst decision we ever made!” (Not only do parts of our car frequently stop working because the computer just can’t seem to handle all the updates, but Tesla Service is.just.awful.) “It sometimes feels that way to me, too,” he replied.

“And… I miss our townhouse! Our daughter could run around and play in our house, before! And it was beautiful…comfortable…we had space… I could soak in the bathtub…” Right now, our kid is confined to the top of her smaller-than-a-twin-sized-bed because the camper is impossible to child-proof and–even if it was–there’s no room for her to move around, anyway. (Also–no bathtub!)

I continued to lament: “Yesterday, we visited a woman’s beautiful home and I saw our daughter joyfully running around in the family room like she used to in ours. It hit me so hard that she has nowhere to play right now–especially in the winter,” I followed. (Oh–there go my tears, flowing again, even as I write this.) “I don’t know why we’re here,” I said; “I don’t know what we’re supposed to learn or do. I just wish it was over.” My husband held me. I cried and he held. We were there a long time.

All of a sudden, I remembered the last time I was in a prophetic mess like this one: told I was infertile when I was pregnant (but I couldn’t prove it); and when I finally could prove it, I became sick as a dog; and when I finally overcame the sickness, got discriminated against by some of my Army leadership for being pregnant. All the while, God kept saying, “You will have a beautiful, healthy child.” There she was, three years later, sitting atop her smaller-than-a-twin-sized-bed, enjoying her oatmeal and an episode of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood (which isn’t really even television, right?) She was beautiful, and perfectly healthy. The memory was God’s voice reminding me of the good fruit of obeying God’s voice, no matter how crazy the ride.

It didn’t end there. I remembered the time before that when I was in an even worse prophetic mess: convicted by God to open my heart to marry a man I didn’t want, and who didn’t want me; but the process made me more godly. More importantly, it made me able to recognize another man who was walking a similar journey, who was also more godly because of it. We became best friends and later—at the invitation of God—lovers. Here he was, lying down before me on my bed in my walk-in-closet of a camper, wiping away my tears. God liked to rub it in: the crazier the ride, the greater the reward.

“At least I have you two,” I said. (Here come the tears, again!) “If I’m gonna have to live in a walk-in-closet because God said so, at least I get to be stuck in here with the two people I love the most,” I concluded. My husband smiled as he said, “My thoughts exactly.”