Blogs - Prayables Team Blog

"What happened? Are you okay?"

My legs were jelly as I stepped carefully out of my car, my voice tight and rushed, the way it gets when I'm too surprised to cry. "I'm okay . . . it wasn't an accident, I guess." There was no collision, after all. I had swerved to avoid a car coming into my lane, and my tire caught a dip on the shoulder, whipping my car around 180 degrees to stop perfectly parallel with the freeway on a shoulder barely wider than my car. As I listened to Phil's brotherly guidance, I watched rush-hour traffic zip past my sad little Sunfire. I looked at the steep, wooded hillside behind me and the next freeway below. I looked again at my car, perched perfectly on the narrow shoulder as though I had parked it there for a nice evening of watching oncoming traffic. The situation was impossible.

The highway patrol officer supported this observation.

"Happens all the time," he said. "People get their tire caught n the dip. They usually roll down the hill, though. You were lucky."

I was lucky. So he said. And so said all of my friends and family when I relayed the story to them later. According to them, God had been watching over me; He stopped my car at the edge of the hill. In the Chicken Soup version of this story, I would be filled with gratitude and tear up a little at the thought of some glowing angel stopping my car at the last moment. But in reality, I didn't tear up. I tracked God down, gave Him a good hard stare, and demanded to know if that was true—if He was directly responsible for my survival.

I was actually, factually angry. Not angry that I had been spared—I can't describe the rage that overtook me when I believed I was about to die. No, I was angry that having been spared made no sense to me. I was angry that all of my friends were telling me that God preserved me when I can't turn on my car radio without hearing about another fatality on the freeway.

So what was the deal? I'm not any more special than any of those folks who did roll down the hill. I certainly don't have any world-changing missions in the works. So why?

I still don't know. And I still bring it up in prayer from time to time. But all I ever get back from Him is a quiet, steady, wouldn't-you-like-to-know smile. I suspect this is the best I can expect for a while. Or perhaps this is the best I can expect ever. Maybe that's the whole point. Maybe the whole reason I spun off the highway was so I could get some practice in faithy-style faith . . . the kind where I have to love without understanding and accept redemption I don't necessarily deserve. The scary kind of faith. The kind I generally avoid.

Or maybe my car is just that amazing.

Off the Shelf

My faith is too delicate
to even speak some days.
It is a flower, a vase, a glass
that I fear doubt can break.

But I shall not leave it
on a shelf collecting dust.
I shall not place it out of reach—
something I see, but never use.

So fill me, over and over,
with peace.
Help me to believe in Your
constant, unceasing strength.

-Miranda Claudius