We were on the way to an appointment, driving on a heavily used two-lane road with safety crosshatches separating each direction. Looking ahead, I saw an elderly person in a manual wheelchair moving backward across the middle of the thoroughfare. They were using their feet to push off against the roadway to propel their reverse motion. Their head stayed down the entire time.
I immediately slowed down to allow them a safe zone in which to complete their risky journey. As soon as I came to a stop, the car behind me raced around me on the left, down the middle of the crosshatching. I uttered a quick pray for safety for both parties. Thankfully, the driver swerved when they saw the person wheeling across the road, and did not have an accident.
Incensed, I began sharing words of wisdom with the driver of the car, who was now nowhere in sight.
“Why did you think I was slowing down? Don’t you realize when someone does that when not at an intersection or driveway, it typically means they can see something ahead that you may not see? Particularly since I was driving a full-size van, I had a clearer vision of the road than you in your compact car. You seriously couldn’t slow down just a few seconds to see if there was a reason, or trust there may have been something in the road ahead which required caution?”
The last word of my rant was barely out of my mouth when God took control of my tongue to wrap up the conversation. Though spoken in first person, the words did not originate from me.
“God, could it be that this is an example of my relationship with you? When I am following you and you stop or pause, seemingly for no good reason, what do I do? Sometimes I get irritated and wrongly assume you got sidetracked and forgot about me. Taking things into my own hands, I zoom around you and continue on what I perceive to be the way. How myopic of me to not realize your slowdown may indicate something ahead you know about, but I do not. You pause for my safety and well-being.”
Thank you, God, for using a little black car and a person in a wheelchair to remind me of your ways.