Fender unbender

So I was steaming a bit earlier. Okay maybe seething. Why?

Well, I have class on Wednesday nights. And instead of cancelling class with the oncoming storm, they allowed it to go on. No problem. I’ve driven in bad weather many times. My teacher lets us out early and so I hop in my car and leave.

The thing is my campus didn’t put any salt down, didn’t remove any of the snow, nothing. So I take it slow. I come to this small turn that goes down on a small grade hill and trickle down it, going 5 MPH if that.

I don’t think it is necessary to write but instead of stopping, I keep sliding when I press my brake. And I watch the molasses slide into the bumper of a car in front of me. Ugh. So I pull over, the girl is fine, I give her my information, and head out again (she was completely wonderful — she said her car almost did the exact same thing to the on in front of her).

So all the way home, I am just mad at the nations and grumbling incessantly. I talk to my dad when I get home and vent. “And I’m going to write someone an email because this is ridiculous and they should have cancelled classes or at least cleared the parking lot…”. Ad nauseam.

And I was so blinded about being right (I said as much would happen prior to leaving) that I couldn’t see that I was okay and more that the girl I hit was okay. Both our cars are fine. No damage. Nothing was more important than me being right and someone else being wrong.

How quickly I forget myself, forget Jesus. And now I feel a fool, though I kept it all internalized aside from the rant to my dad. Being right means so little in the scheme of the world. Especially when you don’t act on it, and in humility.

Truth means nothing when its delivered with the anger and fury and hate blistered into our petty minds. I have unwound the raging coil that bound my being but I still feel it tugging, circling to rebind it. But now truth prevails. The truth that whether I was right or wrong, I have only myself to be angry with. No matter how bad the parking lot was, I could have waited. I could have listened to my intuition before it happened. I could have realized it was just an accident and move on.

Whew. That felt good to write about. I guess this in part shows once more to myself that I am a writer at heart. To ink the quill with your own blood is what it means to be a writer.


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