I stepped from the sidewalk to the crosswalk before I heard the roar of the van approaching the intersection. The driver had a stop sign, but it was clear he wasn't going to be able to stop before he hit me.

Unless, of course, I jumped back out of the way, which, of course I did. I gave the driver my best glare.

The van driver did slow down enough to make it look like he thought about a "rolling stop", but then he quickly wheeled a right turn and sped away. Muttering to myself, I watched with some satisfaction as the van pulled up to the sidewalk about a block and a half ahead.

Like a Wild West gunslinger headed for a high-noon shootout, I picked up my pace to arrive at the same time he'd be getting out of his van. Alas, his driving wasn't the only near-miss in this encounter.

A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.-Proverbs 15:1

 

     I stepped from the sidewalk to the crosswalk before I heard the roar of the van approaching the intersection. The driver had a stop sign, but it was clear he wasn't going to be able to stop before he hit me.

 

     Unless, of course, I jumped back out of the way, which, of course I did.

 

     I gave the driver my best glare.

 

     The van driver did slow down enough to make it look like he thought about a "rolling stop", but then he quickly wheeled a right turn and sped away.  Muttering to myself, I watched with some satisfaction as the van pulled up to the sidewalk about a block and a half ahead.

 

     Like a Wild West gunslinger headed for a high-noon shootout, I picked up my pace to arrive at the same time he'd be getting out of his van. Alas, his driving wasn't the only near-miss in this encounter.  He jumped out, looked back, and immediately started walking towards me. The shootout was coming, and I studied my opponent: Scruffy ball cap; unbuttoned plaid shirt covering a blue T-shirt; and blue jeans that looked like they'd painted many houses.

 

     "I'm really sorry, sir," the other gunslinger said as he walked towards me. "My wife just saw this furniture and called me. I raced over here to get it before somebody else did. I wasn't paying attention; I'm really sorry."

 

     Talk about losing my six-shooter!

 

     "Oh, don't worry about that," I said, completely disarmed by his candor, and grateful God had (yet again) rescued me from my sinful nature.

 

     Passing the furniture he was after, I was immediately humbled. What someone else thought only dumpster-worthy, this young couple was excited they might get. I wanted to stop and apologize for giving him my "best glare", but he was so excited he'd already forgotten I was there.

 

     "My wife is gonna be so happy," he said to anyone, and no one.

 

     I was happy too, not only for his triumph, but that God hadn't let me spoil his joy by my insistence on striking a blow for my dignity and safety.

 

      I'm supposed to be the nice guy; I'm supposed to be long-suffering and turn-the-other-cheek-ish; I'm supposed to be like Jesus. If I can't edit myself in the small shootouts, how will I do in the big battles? How many times do we undo the work of Christ in someone's life by shooting first and asking questions later? How many times do we have to be reminded this life is about others, and not about self, before we start being vessels surrendered to His use?