We were a little over an hour into our trip from Les Plaines to Jacmel when our driver suddenly shifted gears reducing our frantic speed to a lawful limit. As the youngest member of our traveling group “shotgun” was called for me. Consequently, the majority of my Easter Sunday was spent pinned to the passenger seat of a truck, my right hand gripping the edge of the window for balance. I thanked God for whatever obstruction He positioned ahead that cause our NASCAR inspired driver to slow down. I released my grasp on the window, leaned back and inhaled the scent of burning rubber. “There’s no place like home,” I smiled.