The last thing I remember before losing consciousness was optimistically thinking that a few minutes of rest would put me right

The Thursday after Purim started off uneventfully, but it was only through a conflux of clear miracles that I lived to see the end of it.

I live in Hollywood, Florida, where I serve as rosh kollel of the Hollywood Community Kollel. Due to the pandemic, I hadn’t been able to see my mother, who lives in Lakewood, for more than a year, except for one brief, socially distant visit. I received my second vaccine in the beginning of February, and when my mother got hers at the end of the month, I jumped at the chance to visit.

The trip worked out well. It was great seeing my mother, and we both appreciated the time spent together. But after three days, I had to head back.

It was 5 p.m. when I left Lakewood, and I figured I had plenty of time to return my rental car and make my JetBlue flight at 8 p.m. from Newark Airport. Traffic was light as I headed north on the Garden State Parkway, and I spent my time making phone calls for the kollel, glad I’d made the trip and thinking about when I would be able to return.

I had to fill up on gas before returning the car. I noticed the Cheesequake Rest Area ahead — a service area I’d used dozens of times during my years living in Lakewood and my frequent visits since — and I prepared to exit. But for some inexplicable reason my hands froze, and I continued straight, instead of taking the right turn into the service area. I shrugged it off to tiredness and continued onward on the Garden State Parkway.

My wife’s friend Mrs. Rivky Wakzsul from North Miami Beach, Florida, had planned to come into Lakewood with her daughter, a kallah who was looking to buy a sheitel. They would have preferred an appointment early in the week, but Mrs. Wakszul had committed to her office for those days and didn’t want to go back on her word. On Wednesday, a close friend was making a simchah, and she didn’t want to miss it, leaving Thursday as their only day to travel. There were no seats available on Spirit, their preferred airline, so they tried other airlines and managed to find two seats on JetBlue, an airline on which they had never flown. The Wakszuls didn’t want to travel Erev Shabbos, so they booked tickets leaving Thursday morning and returning that evening.

As I drove past Cheesequake, I directed my GPS to lead me to the next closest filling station and was relieved to see the exit was just ahead. I moved to the right, determined not to make the same mistake but, once again, inexplicably, I sailed past the exit.