I helped my son move a bed over to his new place this afternoon, and it reminded me of when Hillary and I moved from LA to Dallas.
We lived on the third floor of a sprawling apartment complex in Culver City. The apartment hadn't come with a refrigerator so we bought one, and it seemed like the apartment managers assumed we would leave it behind when we moved, but we weren't giving them the satisfaction.
Enter "Little Champion". Little Champion was a furniture dolly we purchased to move all our stuff from the 3rd floor to our truck at the curb. He earned his name after the first or second load of furniture moved down 3 flights of stairs, with Hillary and I guiding it so the furniture didn't careen off the side.
But moving that damned fridge is what etched his name in immortality. We huffed and puffed, easing Little Champion down one clanging step at a time for 3 flights. And that was it - we had loaded all our crap into a U-Haul.
Which brings to mind that, in the entire history of that overcrowded apartment complex, we had found two street-front parking spaces empty back-to-back to park our truck, and right at the gate nearest our unit. It was a miracle confirming our decision to get the heck out of LA. Hillary and I both genuinely credited this miracle to God.
This was when we were very young.