It was probably the grace of God that my flight to Denver was delayed until this morning. I’ve had time to think and pray about how to respond to my daughter after her accident two days ago. My first reaction was anger: I’ve told her more than once that she drives too fast, as has her Mom. She tends to be overconfident in her driving abilities, and she pushes the limits when she’s behind the wheel. I was also angry because this accident, for now, reduces us to a single vehicle. The damage to the Blazer seems to be mostly superficial, but replacing the hood and two side panels will more than likely cost several thousand dollars. This is why I wished that she could learn her lesson without costing us – her parents – an arm and a leg (not to mention the increased insurance liability). I didn’t really ask the Lord for His thoughts yesterday, and I went to bed early since I hadn’t slept much at all on the long trip from South Africa to Washington.
I’m in the air now on my way to Denver. There was a moment there this morning when it looked like yesterday’s delays would be repeated; just after we pushed back from the gate the Captain announced that one of the engines wouldn’t start and we would have to return to the terminal. “Not again!” I thought, as I imagined another day sitting in Dulles airport. Thankfully, the mechanics quickly found and corrected the problem, and we left only an hour late.
Now that I’ve had time to think and pray, the Lord has started to speak to my heart. He’s reminded me that while the accident is certainly an inconvenience, I should be grateful that Karine didn’t drive over the edge of the mountain. Instead of a minor logistical hassle we could be arranging a funeral today. He also took me back 26 years to the summer of 1985 when I spent six weeks in Kenya. I was helping with the logistical arrangements to prepare for the CCC summer project in the North of the country, which involved ferrying supplies to various towns in preparation for the arrival of several dozen American college students.. I was young, cocky and ready to tackle any assignment. The project Director asked me to drive up to the town of Maralal, along with a Kenyan staff member named Raphael, to deliver some foam mattresses and other supplies. We drove an old, green Toyota Land Cruiser, and I’ll never forget Dave’s (the owner of the vehicle) last words to me as we were about to pull out: “Be careful. This is my only means of transportation.” Ha, who did he think I was? Some young, inexperienced driver? Nothing could possibly happen to me.
We delivered the equipment and supplies on schedule, and we were on our way back to Isiolo when it happened: I was driving way too fast on an unfamiliar dirt road, and rounding a sharp corner I lost control of the Land Cruiser and we rolled several times before the truck landed on its side. After the terrible sounds of breaking glass and crunching metal, there was suddenly silence. I looked around me, but couldn’t see Raphael. When I called his name I heard a muffled voice coming from beneath me – I had fallen on top of him (no seatbelts). We climbed out and evaluated our injuries: I couldn’t lift my left arm, and Raphael had some deep wounds on his arms that were bleeding profusely. Thankfully, we had a basic first aid kit in the truck, and I was able to wrap his arms and stop the bleeding. We were in the middle of nowhere, so we lay down in the shade of the truck and waited for help to arrive. Long story short: we caught a ride back into town, and tried to call our colleagues in Isiolo to tell them we’d had an accident. They eventually flew to Maralal in the ministry plane to pick us up, passing over the wrecked truck on the way. Typical of African telecommunications, the person who took the message to them said that we’d had an accident, and we were both seriously injured. This was the news that reached my folks back in Nairobi – leaving them to wonder what shape I was in.
Here’s the point that the Lord reminded me of this morning; when I think back to that experience, I don’t remember my parents ever chastising me for driving too fast, or for the amount of money it would cost them to repair the truck . I don’t remember if Dave had insurance or not; all I do remember is that my parents paid to replace the hood and both doors on that truck. I was a broke college student at the time so there was no way I could pay anything towards the repairs. I had learned a hard, valuable lesson about my over-confidence in my driving abilities, and Mom and Dad seemed content to leave it at that. They demonstrated God’s grace to me in a manner I’ll never forget – paying for MY foolishness because I couldn’t pay it myself. That experience changed the way I drive forever.
Fast forward to today. Once the initial anger and frustration subsided, I began to hear the Lord speaking to my heart. My parents’ response to my own foolishness 26 years ago was a living example of His grace. How can I respond to Karine any differently? As I’ve been sitting here listening to my Ipod, one of the French choruses we used to sing started playing: “Ta bienveillance, O Eternel, vaut mieux que tout ce que j’ai vu…” (your loving kindness, O Lord, is worth more than all I’ve seen) – and my heart became overwhelmed with a sense of God’s kindness and mercy towards me. I still don’t know what I’ll say to Karine when I arrive in Denver later this morning – but I know it will be different than what I would have said yesterday.
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