Before you ask, no. I don’t dye my hair.
God is so good. He’s been leading me all along, enduring my panic and my complaints, sending into my path people who know just what to say (Greg, Jess, Katie) to calm my nerves–and preventing me from going to the conference this weekend.
Yes, I got the call after I picked up my photo that Mom will probably be released from hospital this weekend. That is a good thing — I hope. Even if I didn’t have a conference to go to, I’d still think it’s too early, considering how weak she is.
But God is in control. He knows what’s best all the way around, and I trust Him in all of it. And thank Him for the messengers He sent my way to remind me He’s in control.
It amazes me that I’d have to be reminded.
When my husband and I moved here, my dad had cancer. He kept beating the time limit the doctors had put on his life, but we knew he didn’t have long. But he worried about me driving back and forth in my old Pontiac, and gave me his maroon Dodge Dynasty.
Now, there’s nothing sexy about a Dodge Dynasty. It’s worse than a mom-mobile: it’s a grandma car — and I wasn’t a grandma yet. But when I got behind the wheel and took to the highway for the two and a half hour drive, I learned to love that baby! The state had just kicked the speed limit up to seventy and I was pushing the limit. Okay, I lied. I zoomed past the limit on long, empty stretches, whipped around curves, flew over hills. Yowzah! That baby could move!
Coming off a hill, I saw two cars on the road ahead of me just close enough to make me tap the brakes back down to seventy. Off to the side, farther ahead, were two vehicles parked in the grassy easement in front of a pasture. The guy in the car pulled ahead and turned into a dirt drive. The driver of the truck watched the two cars ahead of me pass him.
But he didn’t see me.
He pulled a U right in front of me. I slammed my brakes, my hands locked on the wheel, my arms fully extended and shoving my back into the seat.
A calm voice in my head said, “Turn the wheel.”
In a fraction of an instant, I thought, “Sure. It’d be better to negotiate the field than to hit the truck.” So I whipped the wheel hard right. But the car didn’t turn. It just kept burning rubber on the asphalt, propelling me toward the truck.
Then, I saw it. My front left bumper hit his back right fender. Dead on.
But it didn’t.
I drove through the truck like driving through a hologram. That’s as close as I know how to describe it. I just cut right through it. No damage to either vehicle.
My car finally stopped and I eased over to the side of the road, panting with fear, still gripping the wheel, my heart echoing from my chest to my ears. The pickup driver backed up until he was even with the Dodge, and asked if I was okay. He had a patch over his left eye.
Later, after recounting the story to my parents, my dad said: “As hard as you turned that wheel to miss the truck, you would’ve rolled!”
Now, tell me God’s not in control.
But why don’t I remember it? I feel like an Israelite moaning and groaning over my daily ration of mannah, destined to die before I get to see the promised land. Thank God, Jesus has saved me from that fate, but I can’t help but to understand the wandering Jews’ frame of mind.