I heard the crunch of metal before it registered to my thick skull that I had just hit a parked truck. As if on cue –the waterworks turned on and then I had to navigate un-sticking my car from the truck I was now glued to. Blinded through tears, I inched my car forward as metal screeched against metal.
“Oh nooooo, let’s try backward,” I whispered to baby Kolby as she whimpered and looked around eyes wide with uncertainty.
I swiveled the wheel and backed up, heard a loud pop and then watched in awe as a piece of my bumper flew high into the air. Thankfully my car released from the truck and I pulled forward and parked. I took the baby out of her car seat, calmed her down and walked back to assess the damage.
In one careless second, I had successfully scraped and dented the chrome bumper of a random stranger’s truck.
So I did what I always do in these scenarios. I called my husband/hero and choked out my predicament between wails. He promised to come quickly to my rescue.
Meekly, I walked up to the door of Kolby’s pre-school “Maggie’s House” and Mr. Mark, the owner of the school, opened the door with a smile and a spirit of laid back ease. “Hey Mark. Do you know whose truck that is?” I painfully inquired.
“Yep, it’s mine. Why?”
This was the moment of terrible. The tears started raining again like the synchronized fountain at the Bellagio. “I’m so sorry, I was rushing and the wheel slipped and I’m so sorry and I hit your (sob, sob, hiccup) truck.”
A concerned look crossed his face. “Sam, it’s ok, it’s just a truck. Let’s go check it out.”
His niceness only made me feel worse. I didn’t know what to do with his grace. I honestly think I expected to be yelled at or have pre-school pilgrim hats thrown at me. This care for my heart and the safety of baby Kolby was relatively foreign in a world of angry litigious people who scream and sue you for neck injuries in a parked empty car.
My husband pulled up just about then and the three of us walked out to the street. Tim picked up the rubber bumper pad off the ground, the one that flew through the air, and went back around and snapped it in. The damage wasn’t too bad, but there was some. Both cars were scraped and dented.
Mark gently smiled and shook his head. “Please don’t worry about it. You don’t have to pay for it. It’s a truck and trucks get dinged up.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I pleaded with him to call our insurance, make us pay, anything to give him restitution. But he wouldn’t hear of it.
I left my husband to talk with him and I drove off to work, now late, in a self-condemning fog.
I wanted Tim to make Mark understand that I deserved to pay the penalty. I was careless in my haste to get to work on time and I screwed up.
As I headed up the hill to the toll road, I sensed God nudging me to stop berating myself and draw close. So, I confessed my frustration and pleaded with God to help me feel content and thankful, even in this difficult moment.
Just then, I glanced over to my right and saw a family –a mom, dad and three children with shovels, flowers and a cross by the side of the road. I could only assume that a car accident had taken the life of their loved one.
And I felt God’s grace wash over me –this lavish and unrelenting love for a silly rushing mother.
His protection. His mercy. His Favor.
And so I cried even more.
But these tears were for a hurting family on the side of the road.
In light of God’s perspective my screw-ups didn’t seem so big anymore.
(Of course my son wasn’t too thrilled, because this is the car he gets in a few years to drive. I told him I was breaking it in for him)
