Everybody in Cotton Valley remembers Verndean Weary.

Verndean lived in an old white frame house that had been standing so long nobody could remember who built it. The porch sagged, the shutters leaned, and every room had at least three stories attached to it.

One year the county inspectors came snooping around and declared Verndean’s septic tank unfit for human civilization. They condemned it on the spot. The trouble was, Verndean didn’t have the money to fix it, and the town council didn’t know what to do.

At the same time, Cotton Valley was changing. All these Yankee artist types had started moving in, opening pottery shops, coffee houses, and galleries where old tractor parts were somehow considered “sculpture.” Folks weren’t sure whether the town was being improved or invaded.

The mayor finally came up with a solution. Until the new sewer project could be completed, the town would provide Verndean with a government-issued portajohn.

And where did they put it?

Right in the middle of her front yard.

There it sat, bright blue and impossible to miss, like a monument to municipal problem-solving.

Now one Friday night, Sheela Zorch had been out celebrating with her girlfriends. By the time she headed home in her shiny 1997 BMW, she was feeling no pain and paying only slightly more attention to the road than a distracted squirrel.

Coming down Main Street, Sheela missed the turn completely.

Instead of staying on the pavement, she drove straight across Verndean’s front ditch, through the yard, and directly toward the famous blue portajohn.

What Sheela didn’t know was that earlier that day Verndean had eaten a suspicious hot dog from the Slick-N-Slimy Truck Stop beside the interstate.

And at that exact moment…

Verndean was inside.

Witnesses later disagreed about the speed of the BMW, but everyone agreed on what happened next.

The impact launched the portajohn sideways like a rocket-powered mailbox.

Plastic exploded.

Doors flew.

The holding tank ruptured.

And in a single glorious instant, both Verndean and Sheela found themselves coated head to toe in blue toilet chemicals and things best left undescribed.

The sheriff said it looked like two Smurfs had lost a fight with a sewage treatment plant.

The volunteer fire department laughed so hard they nearly forgot to rescue anybody.

The story made the county newspaper.

Then it made the regional newspaper.

Then somebody put it on Facebook, where it achieved immortality.

Now you’d think getting run over while sitting in a portajohn would be the low point of a person’s life.

But not for Verndean.

After the insurance company sorted everything out, Verndean received a settlement. The old house had been declining for years anyway, so she decided there was no sense trying to save it.

One Saturday afternoon she invited the volunteer fire department over for a training exercise and let them burn the old place to the ground.

Folks brought lawn chairs.

Children sold lemonade.

Someone even roasted marshmallows.

A few months later, a beautiful brand-new doublewide appeared on the property. It had central heat, central air, shiny floors, and—most importantly—real indoor plumbing connected to the town’s brand-new sewer system.

These days Verndean sits on her new front porch smiling whenever visitors ask how she afforded such a nice place.

She just rocks back and forth and says:

“Well, sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways. And sometimes He sends a drunk woman in a BMW.”

And that’s how getting run over in a portajohn became the biggest blessing Verndean Weary ever received.