I don’t know how it happens; the old, sporty-styled blue car must pull out from a side street up ahead and wind up in front of me. This is the second time I have been behind this particular car all the way to town. We’re on a 35 mph arterial, the direct route that goes from our part of the rural county area to town.
The driver of the blue car turns his head and I catch a glimpse of his profile. His apparent age makes it entirely possible that he was a peer of the men, if not one himself, who helped us secure the Allied foothold at Normandy. Suspended from his rear-view mirror is a handicapped-driver tag. He’s going about 25; I have to go 20 to keep from tailgating him. Occasionally he swerves into the oncoming lane, but he corrects.
He’s still my stalwart leader on the 30 mph road that is a business district along US 12. He’s steady at 20. I begin wondering whether he could have been at Waterloo. There’s no passing lane for the entire 6-1/2-mile trip.
By the time I’m thinking Waterloo and auto-focused on my speedometer, resentment has triumphed. But this time—and such times are admittedly too rare—something else takes over. Impatience is the offspring of self-worship. My pastor said so yesterday, in a remarkable sermon on Ecclesiastes 7.
The man in the blue car is suddenly the incredibly dear older fellow under my protection. He gets to drive as cautiously as he needs to. I’d way rather share the road with him than a rager speeding, passing dangerously, and honking his horn.
As for the minutes I might have “saved” had I been able to drive the speed limit, I am about positive that I would have squandered them elsewhere without benefit of a single edifying thought.
Better is the end of a thing than its beginning,
And the patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit.—Eccl. 7:8 (ESV)