When we left the house, it was a beautiful overcast day. As the minutes and miles slipped past, the light sprinkle turned into raindrops, and the raindrops became big rain blobs. Water started pooling on the freeway, and traffic slowed to under 30 miles per hour.
My car sensed I was in danger, that I was driving too fast for the conditions, so it warned me twice with a red triangle, a beep beep, then it grabbed the road. It was like it had put on the brakes, but not quite. Having never encountered a thinking car responding to my driving, it was startling and left me with that scared-to-death, shaky, heart thumping fright.
It started to rain even harder and visibility dropped drastically. I was ultra thankful it wasn't snowing.
Then, It started to snow.
After the snow started, the first time I drove through an underpass, I had a few seconds of a clear windshield and relief. I even thought the snow was letting up, but back under the skies, the snow resumed. The next underpass, again brought a second of relief and visibility. Each underpass was a short distance from the next, and my clear views, though fleeting, brought a sense of comfort.
I thought about the life's reprieves or life's underpasses, when we get a break from the pelting snow: the quiet moments of clarity amidst the forces of opposition, amidst self-inflicted wounds, mistakes, misunderstandings. The reprieves that comes from prayer, from "I'm sorry," from a nap or a run on the beach; from kind people, from patience, from "Do unto others as ye would have them do unto you;" from heart to hearts, from cards in the mail, or even finding the car keys.
Reprieves won't happen unless we plan them, unless we grab them like we would a falling child.
We tend to think reprieve only happens when we are the recipient, but the stronger more satisfying reprieves can be when we plan them for others. Generosity is magically reciprocal; it is at the end of a rubber band that when stretched, always comes back.
My car sensed I was in danger, that I was driving too fast for the conditions, so it warned me twice with a red triangle, a beep beep, then it grabbed the road. It was like it had put on the brakes, but not quite. Having never encountered a thinking car responding to my driving, it was startling and left me with that scared-to-death, shaky, heart thumping fright.
It started to rain even harder and visibility dropped drastically. I was ultra thankful it wasn't snowing.
Then, It started to snow.
After the snow started, the first time I drove through an underpass, I had a few seconds of a clear windshield and relief. I even thought the snow was letting up, but back under the skies, the snow resumed. The next underpass, again brought a second of relief and visibility. Each underpass was a short distance from the next, and my clear views, though fleeting, brought a sense of comfort.
I thought about the life's reprieves or life's underpasses, when we get a break from the pelting snow: the quiet moments of clarity amidst the forces of opposition, amidst self-inflicted wounds, mistakes, misunderstandings. The reprieves that comes from prayer, from "I'm sorry," from a nap or a run on the beach; from kind people, from patience, from "Do unto others as ye would have them do unto you;" from heart to hearts, from cards in the mail, or even finding the car keys.
Reprieves won't happen unless we plan them, unless we grab them like we would a falling child.
We tend to think reprieve only happens when we are the recipient, but the stronger more satisfying reprieves can be when we plan them for others. Generosity is magically reciprocal; it is at the end of a rubber band that when stretched, always comes back.
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