And then you find yourself sitting beside the dumpsters at one of the county pitch-ins — garbage collection points, for those wondering — listening to the wind in the wisteria vines and completely amazed. It happened so quickly.
He didn’t use a turn signal; when he turned in front of us, there was just time to slam on the breaks, to scream for a sickening moment, to then realize that it was just the back corner of his truck we’d hit, with just his garbage can flying out of the truck and landing in a dumpster, that it was just the front of our Suburban crunched in and we were unbruised. I didn’t know I was praying, but when the motion stopped, I heard myself saying “Thank You.”
Strange Providence, isn’t it? To send two women out expressly to keep an appointment with the back right corner of a four-door Chevrolet Silverado, just to keep them waiting a while beside several dumpsters before going home in a different vehicle to sit and try to feel ordinary again.
And was that the point, perhaps? To remind that “ordinary” comes actually as a gift of extraordinary grace, that the words “Thank You” are as appropriate to all the days when you do not drive into trucks as they are to the day when you do? To remind of another crushing, which we earned, borne by the One who did not earn it?
This Friday? Good.