Dear Good Samaritan...

Reading people’s bumper stickers is a wonderful source of amusement for me – the more the better.  Sometimes I gain some pithy insight, sometimes I cringe or groan, but almost always, I am entertained by what someone choose as their personal message to the world behind them.

As much as I love reading bumper stickers, I rarely display them myself.  To me they are kind of like tattoos – there’s no one, brief message, by which I would want to be defined as a human being – or even just as a motorist.  Not even those cute stick families, or an ichthus (the fish shape Christians use to identify themselves to one another).  Both are still loaded symbols that might convey to someone a disdain for them I do not have, or a vanity to which I do not subscribe.

Sometimes I am tempted, in my love of back bumper bling, to try to create a collage of stickers that somehow defies the stereotypes I fear reinforcing.  What if a put my pro-life “Motherhood is a proud profession” sticker next to my “Obama Biden 2012” sticker, add a hopeful, “Jesus loves you,” throw in a cheesy, “smile, it makes people wonder what you’re up to,” and then top it off with a snarky, “Don’t worry what people think, they don’t do it very often.”  It would be kind of fun to add the stick family of Star Wars characters, too.  Would the people behind me at a stop light, from whichever camp of abortion, politics, religion, contemplation, or Sci-Fi, be confused and angry, or marvel at my breadth of commitments and sense of humor?

Last week, someone proved to me why no message can ever stand alone, as a testimony to the world about who you are and what you are about.  My husband had a campaign sticker on the back of his truck, and we came out of a store to find a note tucked under our windshield wiper.

Perhaps this person thought they were going to have a laugh at our expense, and I’m sure they proudly boasted about the pile of these photocopied greetings that they had distributed during election season.  But what does anyone gain from calling someone else an idiot, based on one, small modicum of information about that person?  If you are going to call yourself a “good Samaritan,” I suggest you pull open your scriptures and actually read the story.  Jesus’ story redefined community, illustrating that those who agree with you, who publicly claim to operate out of the same perspective, are often of no value to you in your time of deepest need – real community has to do with reaching out to one another, past divisions and divides, and offering our best to one another in every circumstance.  Labeling someone “idiot” is in direct conflict with the story of the good Samaritan. 

This note tells me, from this one, small modicum of information I now have, that the writer is not a faithful, generous servant of Christ, using the blessing of freedom to build up our country and make the world a better place, but instead a judgmental, divisive person, who has done their candidate and their Creator a great disservice, by spreading ill-will in their name.

But I would like to push myself, unlike this “good Samaritan,” to look the past one, hopefully small, shortcoming I see in this person, and remember there is an entire person on the other side.  I’d like to believe that they are actually a good person, with a misguided sense of humor.  I’d like to hope they will offer me the same grace when I cut them off on the freeway, forget to use my blinker, or accidentally swerve into their lane while avoiding a fallen branch.   I hope they can join me in attempting to offer less judgment, and more acknowledgement of our commonalities.

 But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” Luke 10:29

I'm itching for a road trip.

Between the baby, the move, and financially preparing for me to quit my job, family vacationing has been off the table for the last couple years.  Granted, and my husband would be quick to point it out, we did travel with the kids each of the last two summers, to Arizona and to Wyoming, but both times it was on short notice for a memorial service.  We tried to make the most of the time off and family togetherness, but, in my mind, it really doesn’t qualify as a true “family vacation.”  We have thoroughly enjoyed a few weekend visits to neighboring cities, and I wouldn’t complain about Minneapolis, Chicago, or the Wisconsin Dells, but, again, these short, fun weekend trips were really more “getaways” than “vacations.”

Mostly, those occasions served to remind me how awesome it is to hit the open road with the whole family in tow.  I love those long carefree days of seeing new things together, listening to old school music on the radio, eating deviled ham sandwiches for lunch, and taking turns watching Star Wars movies in the back seat with the kids.  There’re KOA campgrounds calling my name, World’s Biggest Balls of stuff to be photographed and explored.  There’s national history to be learned in person, hotel pools to be cannonballed into, mountain paths to be hiked, and, I hope with all my heart, an ocean to be splashed in.  I don’t care whether we go east, west, or south; I just have that deep hankering to go.

It’s not entirely reasonable.  The baby’s still small.  The house isn’t unpacked or organized.  The summer is still months off.  It always costs more than you budget, someone inevitably spills, craps, or vomits in the back of the van.  At some point, your will to rough it breaks down and you spring for a two-room suite that gives you a locking door between yourselves and the kids.  Yes, I know all the limitations.  But the heart wants what the heart wants.  I long for a 2-4000 mile, 14-20 day adventure, together with my favorite people.  I think it’s road trips that make us American; it’s our patriotic duty to explore this vast and beautiful nation.  Are you buying this?  Because I really want to go.

You brought us here and gave us this land rich with milk and honey. Deuteronomy 26:9

I just go go go

My high school friends hated to ride with me, because I charged every stop sign.  Not to the point of throwing anyone into the dash, but I wouldn’t let off the gas until I had just enough time to make the stop.  Why waste precious seconds coasting?  I avert my eyes when an elderly person cuts me off in a doorway or grocery store aisle to avoid signaling animosity where there is only impatience.  I’m not mad they’re slow, or resentful that I have to wait for them; I just wasn’t prepared to break my stride so abruptly and am ready to resume my mission as soon as they clear the path.

My husband calls me antsy.  It drives me nuts to wait behind someone in the self checkout who can’t figure out the scale.  I could lose my mind watching someone run an internet search using inefficient search terms.  Don’t get me started on sitting through church meetings.

I don’t tailgate or nag, but it’s only because I know how impatient I am.  I know that it isn’t fair to the others around me, who need a little more time to get through the doorway, decide what they want to order, or realize it’s their turn at the four way stop.  I have a certain practiced calm that is often a required antidote to my natural impatience; I stand back, breathe deeply, and say a prayer of thanksgiving that God has given so many delightful things to do each day that I literally want to race from one to the next; that God’s blessed me with the physical health and quick thinking that make it possible to get my half dozen items and get back out of Walmart in less than ten minutes; that someone stepped in front of me this very instant to remind me to slow down and savor where I am and what I’m doing.

I hear people marvel sometimes that I’m able to keep up with so many demands.  My driven nature does allow me to keep up a full plate and I’m grateful for that.  But sometimes I know that comes at the cost of making other people feel they’re just a speedbump on my race.  It takes deliberate, intentional action for me to reorient my attitude from action and accomplishment toward relationship and connection.  Sometimes I need to sacrifice efficiency to leave enough space for humanity, to hear someone’s story, to show someone love; to leave room for Christ to shine.

Always be humble and gentle. Patiently put up with each other and love each other. Ephesians 4:2

I have a love/hate relationship with my minivan

We’ve all seen her at the mall, I’m sure.  She’s wearing 5 inch heels and fake fingernail tips, balanced on the running board of a Sequoia, trying to wrestle a baby seat up into the base without snapping a nail or getting her hair in her lipstick.  Not realizing how much she looks like the butt of a reality show joke, she wears her biggest fear on her Armani sleeve.  She’s a slave to anything the design editors have told her is “in.”  If you savor this sort of entertainment, and you can walk slowly enough to your car, you can catch the sequel, where she tries to fold up the stroller and lift it in under the hatch without crushing her shopping bags or spraining her ankle.

It’s not really fair for me to pick on Designer-Mom.  It’s probably not smart either.  If she gets ticked, she could run over my whole house with that SUV.  Seeing her struggles, however, I shake my head and pity her a little.  It’s not that I don’t like cool stuff; I do.  It’s just that I try to incorporate fashion in ways my lifestyle can actually accommodate.  I feel a different sort of coolness wash over me when I load up my three kids, and the stroller, and all the scenery and puppets for Sunday’s outreach, and am on my way while Designer-Mom is still stretching over seats to fiddle with car seat buckles she can barely reach without climbing into the third row of her fabulous vehicle.

The practicality of a minivan completely reigns for me.  Driving a third-row SUV would be, to me, like wearing thong underwear.  It may impress that one person who actually catches a glimpse of it, but you’re the one who has to live with the chafing wedgie all day long.  It’s just not worth it.

My minivan does, however, have a downside.  While it has changed our lives for the better with its sliding doors, seating capacity, and cargo space, it has indulged our worst hording tendencies.  The back seat is constantly piled high with leftover fastfood cartons, markers, personal electronics, dirty socks, and, usually, whatever item the girls needed for school and couldn’t find.  Every time I clean it out, I vow that I’m going to enforce better habits.  My husband and I have our own stash between the front seats, usually the leftovers from our last road trip: the GPS tangled around a mess of half-eaten combos, museum fliers, and, if you’re lucky, enough loose change to park downtown for a quick lunch.

A fashion crisis on wheels, our minivan also sports a cracked windshield, bubbling paint spots, a wide array of door dings, manual-close doors, and the interior has cords strung around like Christmas lights to run the portable DVD system.  I fantasize about trading it in for an upscale minivan, with power doors, built in A/V, leather seats, and a moonroof.

Basically, I’m sitting back in my granny-panties, wishing for some nice, cotton bikinis.

Your country will be covered with caravans…  Isaiah 60:6

I’m hiding laundry in my trunk.

In the fabulous juggling act of life, I’ve been dropping a few balls lately.  To say that I’ve let the summer get away from me is an understatement.  Somehow my return to work after maternity leave converged with personal and family obligations, both planned and surprise, in a way that has left me with more on my plate than I can swallow; at least not in one sitting!  Added to that, I can be pretty negligent to my obligations this time of year anyway, because summer is the season I suck the marrow from, in order to survive the dark days of winter ahead.

The laundry thing started out innocently enough.  The house is listed, so we’re trying to keep the place spotless.  I think keeping dirty underwear out of site helps create a positive vibe for buyers.  Nothing says “utopia” like an empty laundry room, right?  So when we got back from my grandma’s service (just three, short weeks ago, mind you), I brought in each of the girls bags in succession to wash their clothes and put everything away.  Then I fell behind and my big duffle, a combined mess of my own and the baby’s clothes, was still riding around in the back of the minivan when we packed up again for a 4^th of July weekend in Wisconsin.  We had a blast!  Unfortunately, in the days since our return, I have been too preoccupied with my kids and preparing for our summer program at church to empty the trunk and get our laundry done, so our fresh crop of dirties is languishing in the trunk on top of my previous duffle.

There have been a few awkward moments, since this whole laundry hiding thing began.  Every time they load groceries into my car, I feel an obligation to explain to the cart-boy why they are having to pile my purchases on top of our suitcases.  I don’t, but I feel like I should.  I have the same feeling when there’s a sudden chill at a ballgame and the girls dig through my bag and come back to the bleachers in an assortment of my dirty clothes.  Then there’s the odor.  Maybe it was a bathing suit?  Perhaps a towel?  Something back there got wet, and there’s nothing more refreshing on a day of 92 degrees and 89%  humidity than a wave of hot, musty stench rolling out to meet you when you slide open the door of your car.

I'm hauling more than kids back there!

So, I’ve still got two days of packed activity to live through, but I’ve requested a do-nothing day this weekend and I’m a hankering to remedy my laundry folly.  We’ll see how far I get before something more pressing distracts me – like making faces at the baby, eating Hawaiian Shaved Ice with the big girls, a showing, or Mr. Popper’s Penguins at the Drive-In.  I’m sure it will work out.  If not, pack extra underwear, girls, because it may be winter before we get caught up!

After Moses went down the mountain, he gave orders for the people to wash their clothes and make themselves acceptable to worship God. Exodus 19:14

Pioneers are either wacky or lucky.

No one ever reads the Little House books and says, "I'd like to be Mary Ingalls." Aside from the fact that she went blind and died an old maid, being such a model of decorum and grace must have been such a bore. Like every reader, I wanted to be Laura. Imagine the freedom of roaming barefoot on the prairie, with the sky wide open above and the wind blowing through your hair. Who cares if society frowns on your tanned arms, or that you might be hijacked by buffalo wolves out there on the prairie?

On our long drive to Grandma’s funeral, my husband and I listened to By the Shores of Silver Lake. I’d checked the book on CD out for my daughters, but they quickly lost interest. We adults, however, found it fascinating to hear her first-hand account of being the very first settlers in a brand new town at the end of the railroad grade, before the tracks had even been laid that far west. It led us to ponder the motivation of the pioneers. What possesses someone to give up everything they have, to put their life and livelihood, as well as that of their children, on the line, in the mere hopes that something better might lay on the other side of the horizon? Granted, Uncle Sam was giving away 160 acre farms, but really, don’t you have to be a little wacky to take that kind of risk?

My brother works for a new kind of pioneer. He’s helping build rockets, as space exploration is becoming a privatized endeavor. His boss got rich on technology stocks and decided he wanted to go to Mars. When no one would help, he started his own company with that goal. Hence, wacky or lucky. Or maybe both.

There are things I am passionate about, no doubt. I’ve made sacrifices and worked hard for a number of different endeavors over the course of my years so far, however, I’ve never been a pioneer, by any stretch. Sometimes I dream of pioneering – finding something no one’s tried before, something about which I’m insanely passionate – and putting it all on the line to make a go of it. Maybe I’d just be wacky, but who knows? Maybe I’d be lucky, too?

I am creating something new. There it is! Do you see it? I have put roads in deserts, streams in thirsty lands. Isaiah 43:19

I Ran Out of Compassion

After a tumultuous week of emotional ups and downs, with a long day of travel and to-do's ahead, I was not prepared for one of those flights where you end up with a headache and a voucher for 4000 extra frequent flier miles.  Being unprepared was never a good method of prevention.

Seated in the very last row of the plane with my girls on either side of me and my husband several rows ahead of us, we were just getting settled when a father boarded with his son, a kid about 3, I would guess, definitely an older 2 at least.  Said child was, already, crying.  Dad strapped him into his carseat across the aisle from us, briefly suggested that he look out the window (which someone else had vacated for him when they saw the kid was already crying), and wasted no time pulling out a bag of lollipops for his little guy to choose from.

As soon as the sucker was gone, the rage began.  For an hour and a half, the person in front of him got to enjoy the on-board massage chair - with little feeting pounding the back of his seat.  The youngster brought forth peal after peal of screaming.  Several times, he screamed so loudly that my daughter and I involuntarily covered our ears, because it physically hurt.

Now, I have great empathy for the parents of screaming toddlers normally.  I've been in that stressful situation where a little one loses it and you have to bring forth every measure of creativity to get them to calm down and stow their horns.  But when a parent starts to count, the child should know to what number they are counting, and that something is going to happen when that number is reached.  Dad kept starting over at one every time he hit five, but nothing happened at five!  He was helpless to prevent his kid from pounding the seat in front of him, or piercing all our eardrums with screams so loud they dulled the engine noise.

Call me a parenting snob, but my kids, even at their worst, were not allowed to treat other people like that.  Not even at 2 1/2.  Basic consideration is to teach your children that they are not allowed to hurt other people, no matter how upset or angry they, themselves, might be.   I wanted to offer Dad my seat, between two kids who were behaving with absolute decorum, even while undergoing auditory torture, and give his son a firm, but gentle reminder that strangers might not be as nice as Dad if he kept up his shenanigans.

Others on the flight were so considerate, I nearly cried.  They suggested that his ears were hurting and offered pieces of gum.  They offered their snacks and electronics.  Nearing the end of the flight, with no remedy working, the flight attendant suggested to the father that he pick up a bottle of kiddie pain meds before he put Jr on another segment, if the problem was ears; Dad says, "are you telling me to give my kid drugs?"  His snotty response to her empathic plea really topped it off for me.  The flight attendant, to my amazement, kept it discrete when she brought out "we're sorry you were on the flight from hell" vouchers.

My head pounding, I tried to remind myself that my 2 hours with this family was a small punishment compared to living 24/7 with the monster-child they are creating.  But as we sat on the tarmac for a 1/2 hour and his scream didn't not abate, I heard the words slip out and hoped no one else did, "It's not your ears now, Buddy.  How about another sucker?"

Two tips: one, don't count up, count down; two, when you get to zero, the consequence should not be another sucker.

Come, my children, listen to me; I will teach you the fear of the LORD. Psalm 34:11

I’ve been obsessing about my own mortality

I’m turning 35 this summer. Whether that seems old or young to you probably depends on how much higher or lower your own number is. What I know for sure is that, while there is potentially still a long journey ahead of me, I have also put some long years behind me. I’ve always tried to live intentionally, beginning with the end in mind, you might say. However, lately everything in my life seems to be contriving to bring me repeated consciousness of the fact that living is a terminal condition.

I attended another funeral this morning. A beloved friend from church who was blessed to enjoy a long and fruitful life has gone on to Glory. Another dear friend, not so advanced in years, had emergency surgery to remove her appendix the day after Mother’s Day; thankfully they caught it in time. My younger daughter is graduating from Kindergarten; it seems much too soon. Grandpa is back in the hospital again. A family in our community had two of their three kids die when their minivan was T-boned on a quiet side street we commonly drive down. My older daughter started needing deodorant. All are subtle and not-so-subtle reminders that time moves in only one direction and, sooner or later, that onward march is going to lead all of us to the same outcome.

I’m seeing everything different these last few weeks. Every time I get into a car, I consider the possibility of an accident. When I order French fries, I hear my arteries begging me to stop. I look in the mirror and see the smile lines and sun spots starting, and know that kid at the grocery store isn’t going to keep asking for my I.D. forever.

Some ministers will suggest that from the day we put our faith in Christ, our earthly life is just a hindrance, holding us back from the Glory that awaits us. When I was younger, that was one of my biggest fears; that life quit meaning anything, because accepting Jesus meant longing for the end. Life was just this burdened in-between of trying to spread the Gospel and secure eternity for others.

The Gospel is much fuller to me now than it used to be. While I hope for the eternal Glory my friends are now experiencing, I’m trying really hard to experience Glory each day. Life has these incredible seasons we get to pass through, each a unique gift from God who gives us life. From the beautiful naiveté of childhood, through the discovery of youth, the comfort of finding our identity and vocations, and on into the uncharted future that I hope will bring adventure, accomplishment, and grandkids. God didn’t plan just for the end, God planned for each and every day, each moment, of this Glorious life I get to live.

But even as I dream of this amazing future, I feel burdened right now by the reality that, as Mat Kearney’s song Closer to Love puts it, “we’re all just a phone call from our knees.” Anything can happen at any time to cut short the dreams I hope for, and I feel like, right now, life is just starting to get good. Really good. Good-byes are hard, but I don’t want to live in either denial or in fear of them; they’re part of life, too.  Lately, though, I've been feeling the pinch of their inevitability.

"Show me, O LORD, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth;the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man's life is but a breath. Psalm 39:4-5 

http://apps.facebook.com/ilike/artist/Mat+Kearney/track/Closer+To+Love

An Elliptical is Cheaper Not to Use than a Gym Membership

My neighborhood is teeming with joggers nowadays. Drive attentively, because these spandex-clad women and men are fast-moving and hard-to-spot. You'd probably be better off putting down the window and sniffing them out, because many times they are completely soaked in their own sweat.

It looks like complete misery to me: the pounding impact of the pavement; the heat of the sun; the solitude; the pointless return back to where you started. Aside from the fact that nothing is giving chase, they also aren’t headed to a destination worthy of the effort. I cringe at the thought of having to do extra laundry to wash all those spandex. I’m sure they have to wash them “cold – delicate cycle – non-chlorine bleach – line dry.” And they can’t go back out in public until they’ve spent another half hour taking that extra shower and redoing their hair (which also rules out the possibility they are jogging to a coffee shop or tavern).

It is so easy to be disdainful of the joggers. My biggest gripe with them is that they have mustered something I so thoroughly lack: discipline. I fantasize like everyone else about having ripped abs and a firm bottom. But I think I know down deep that I am just lucky to be average. After having two kids, I realized that I needed to do something different or I was not going to stay “average.” We joined the Y. While my girl was in their preschool, I even managed a dutiful habit of hitting the stair-climber 3 times a week. And I lost – not a pound. Not a pound. Then we moved and the Y wasn’t on our daily path, so after a few months without going there, we made the choice to drop the membership and purchase a second-hand elliptical machine.

Once the elliptical machine is at the foot of your bed, you can no longer claim that your workout is too far out of the way. You have to find other reasons not climb on board and work up a sweat. One of my favorites: my only successful weight loss has come from a concerted effort to eat smaller portions and avoid snacks. That and the occasional cleansing that a good potluck offers (see my post on potlucks).

We’re a pretty active family and I’m not afraid of hard work. But I seem to need the motivation of a project to work on, a destination to hike to, or a game to play. Getting on a machine to run round like a hamster or taking an hour out of my day to beat up my knees so I can say I ran a whole mile doesn’t motivate me. I wish it did. I wish I was disciplined, because I know they’re right and I’m wrong. And when those annoying jogger-people are chasing their grandkids, while I’m sitting in a recliner complaining about my back pain, I’ll wish I did something about it.

Maybe if they could hook the elliptical up to a battery pack so my effort could save us a little on electricity?

He will die for lack of discipline, led astray by his own great folly. Proverbs 5:23

I Can't Wait to Be Old

I love old people.  I'm just like some jerk about to crack a Polack joke, who says, "Some of my best friends are Polish people."  Well, many of my good friends are elderly and I love them dearly.

So while I confess to you that I often and joyously make fun of old people, I have to remind you how much I look forward to becoming an old person myself.  As I mentioned before, there's an 80 year old lady in me, who I very much aspire to be.  So my mirth is always mixed with the very real hope that I can be just like them someday.  After all, there are some real advantages to advanced age.

I can't wait to be old enough to pick a fashion decade and stick with it for the duration.  There's a gorgeous, stately woman I know, who must be over 80.  She looks like an ad from Sears & Roebuck's 1926 catalog.  She probably hasn't had to buy a stitch of new clothing in thirty years.  If she were my age, she'd be a social outcast, and have to compromise and at least buy a pair of oversized sunglasses or something, but at some point, she didn't have to cowtow to every fad anymore.  She just found what she liked and wore it.  The prime example of this phenomenon, of course, is the purple & red ladies.  Let's just say my youth group might have trouble focusing if I showed up in red & purple feathers each week.

I can't wait to open my car doors unapologetically.  I had to get a minivan, not because my two kids overwhelmed a sedan, but because I got so tired of the guilt that went along with watching my kids door-ding every parking lot neighbor I sidled up to.  Sliding doors are a real salvation for my guilt complex.  But as someone who parks daily in a church parking lot, I can tell you from experience that pulling up too close to a Buick or Cadillac when there's a sewing circle or fish fry going on will inevitably lead to car doors that look like Brad Pitt's acne scared cheeks (I have a picture somewhere that proves this about Brad Pitt, for those who choose to deny the reality of his failed teenage hygiene).  Someday, I am going to drive a big boat, park in the wider spot by the door, and throw open my doors with the boldness of an aged woman.

I can't wait until fake eye lashes and bright lipstick won't suggest to the men around me that I'm going to charge by the hour.  I can't wait until I get to subsitute a clear plastic bonnet for my umbrella.  I can't wait until a wig will be an acceptible alternative on a bad hair day.  I can't wait until I can afford to buy the best seats when my favorite band re-organizes to release a new album after a fifteen year hiatus.  I'll sit way in front of all the youngsters who would have died for my seat and dance like a maniac to all three "early" songs, then leave when the good music starts.

My daughters have trouble with the idea of my mortality sometimes.  They become deeply concerned about the reality that our parents will proceed us in death.  I worry about that too sometimes, because I still get to enjoy the company of three of my four grandparents and both my parents.  I don't know what it will be like to bid farewell to someone who made an intense inpression on my personality and my DNA.  But I tell my dauthers often that I pray, before we have to say good-bye, that we get to be old ladies together.  Because we're going to have a hoot!

I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands. Psalm 63:4

I'm Lucky I Haven't Run Someone Over

I've had no less than three utterly stupid moments behind the wheel of a car in the last month.  I don't normally consider myself to be an awful driver, but at this point, I have to consider the possibility.

Two were at least partially the result of heavy fog.  Driving at night, I thought I was taking my exit, only to realize as my headlights lit up the green exit sign 10 feet in front of me, that I had passed the exit and was cutting across the shoulder.  To avoid the sign, I cut over like a maniac.  It was only by good fortune that no one had already moved up to occupy that lane, or I would have run them right off the road, because I panicked and did not look.  Praise the Lord, no loss of life, time, or treasure resulted from my folly.

You would think after that, I would have slowed down when I encountered another foggy day.  But I apparently had not learned my lesson yet.  With no such perilous consequences, my second foggy day experience involved completely missing my turn - twice.  I had to invent a new way home to accommodate my utter lack of effective foggy-weather driving, but at least I didn't risk anyone's life.  I guess I did learn something from my earlier mistake.

Yesterday, however, I cannot blame on the fog at all - other than the fog in my head after getting back from a long road trip last week and still being a little out of sorts.  It was clear and sunny.  I had set my cruise control to my accustomed 5 mph over the speed limit, and was cruising along the freeway, heading home from work.  I noticed that the river was flooding and began to ponder whether it was high enough to cover the bike path yet.  I didn't realize that I was focusing more and more on the scenery and less and less on the road in front of me, until I glanced up and saw the back end of an old Taurus station wagon.  I hit the brakes pretty hard when I realized it was only going 55.  I didn't have time to even check my blind spot, let alone change lanes.  Whatever excitement it generated for me, I'm sure the driver of the Taurus had some choice words on his lips when he saw me roar up on him like that; and his wife ought to send me the cleaning bill for his shorts.

And my dad thought the red light I ran while visiting him was the worst driving I've done lately...

I don't say it lightly that I praise the Lord when these things happen and there are no consequences, because I know sometimes people lose their lives when they make mistakes like mine.  Yet I also know that if every mistake someone made on the road resulted in the worst case scenerio, there would be no one left to drive; and the glory for that goes to God.

For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.  Psalm 91:11