I spent Thanksgiving in Nashville helping my sister and brother-in-law with their four infants and one-year-old toddler. Getting to spend time with them was amazing; but, as I'm sure you can imagine, five days with five kiddos under two-years-old means all-hands-on-deck, all the time -- particularly during the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. By the time I left Nashville late Saturday evening, it had been since Tuesday since I washed my hair - and Thursday since I'd brushed it. I was stinky and sleepy and eager to be home before my church gig in the morning.
Sinking deep into the recesses of Taylor Swift's 1989 album, I surfaced briefly to notice a state trooper nestled in his hiding place, ready to pounce. Moments later, I was parked on the side of the interstate with a flashlight pointed at my face. You guessed it: I was speeding. And not just casually speeding -- but traffic school, reckless driving speeding.
Determined to make him understand why I had been so irresponsible (but mostly determined to get out of trouble), I frantically shared a piece of my story in a rush of verbal vomit -- where I was coming from and where I was going. I was perhaps too forthright, unabashedly asking him to let me off the hook. He said no, but that he would go easy on me. He was kind and curious, and he took his job seriously; he wanted to see my license, registration, and proof of insurance. Defeated and pumped dry of my reserve of charm and energy, I rummaged through my glove compartment only to remember that I took my registration and proof of insurance out of my car last week and forgot to return it. Things were only looking more bleak as I muttered that my documents were in my apartment.
When he came back to my window, I was munching on sour gummy worms, awaiting my verdict in a puddle of annoyance and exhaustion. In my mind's eye, I can only imagine what this stranger saw: a mouthy woman with crazy eyes, greasy hair, and snacks strewn across her passenger seat. A silly girl with silly excuses, ready to tell him how to do his job. The verdict was surprising indeed: because I didn't have my registration or proof of insurance, he was able to issue me a nonmoving violation and a warning. Confused by his lenience - I asked him to repeat himself, which he did graciously. I sputtered out a shaky, tearful thank you and drove away. Slowly.
And so, reader, why do I share this story with you? Perhaps I share because I drank too much coffee and my head won't quiet down until I write my thoughts out. Or perhaps this blog has become a friend of mine that bears witness to my journey. Or perhaps because I'm a sensitive artist who attaches too much meaning to isolated, inconsequential events.
Or perhaps I share this story because 2016 seems to have been hard on everyone. For some, the year has ached, like an irritation that is difficult to name but impossible to ignore. For others -- and for those who are close to me -- 2016 exhausted, terrified, stretched, and stunned. And still for more, 2016 has been soggy and dripping with grief and disappointment. Regardless of where you land on this spectrum or what experiences you are coming from: life may be hard right now.
And so I offer you this story because, for whatever reason, a stranger showed me compassion and it changed something in me. He softened a hardness that I hadn't yet named, and pierced through callouses that I wasn't aware had formed. Grace, incisive and bitter-tasting, left me raw, soft, and grateful.
Perhaps 2017 can be marked by this: you and me, neighbor-to-neighbor, seeing each other - no agenda, no end-gaining - just being present and offering compassion.
No comments:
Post a Comment