We were on our way to a therapy appointment just like any other day since Christie’s accident. Every morning, up early to eat and get the kids rolling. Then it’s out the door to drive the 1 hr or so trip to the hospital for a 2-hour therapy session.
The traffic here is nuts on a good day and like a science fiction movie on a bad one–Think apocalyptic, end-times flick where everything is burned out and people are now cannibals. It can be a “Road Warrior” with a dash of “2012” stuffed with “The Book of Eli” wrapped in “Armageddon “ and deep-fried to a crusty diesel-smoke black. It is a beautiful thing to see. It’s like break dancing in a dumpster full of broken glass and scrap metal.
Well, this day was no different. There were motos (little motorcycles) everywhere. Buses of every color in every direction. Cars, trucks, semi-trucks, horse carts, bicycles and pedestrians. There were street vendors and window washers and bus passengers and pan handlers pushing relatives in wheel chairs walking in between the cars. Just so you know we do have lines on the roads here but they are there to provide work for the road crew in painting and upkeep–they don’t actually mean anything to the drivers. I have noticed that I drive by instinct and not necessarily “by the book.” For me this is a sensory explosion. Much to the chagrin of my lovely spouse I have joked that I was genetically created by God to drive here.
The motorists jockey for position during the horn concert otherwise known as a red light. As I was waiting for the light to change and maintaining my spot (VW golf–not much of a spot), a bus began to creep up on my right side in what is affectionately called “the turning lane”. In actuality, it is the slide-up-and-wedge -your-way-in-before-the-concrete-median lane.
I walked up and the traffic that could get by was whizzing by. Others were violently honking their displeasure at my blocking the road, and still the bus driver wouldn’t get out of his bus. In fact, when I went up to the window he wouldn’t even look my way. After the 3rd or 4th time I said, “You hit me,” he finally looked over and said, “No I didn’t, it wasn’t me.”
It wasn’t me. Are you serious? You’re the only bus around with exactly the same shade of green as my car in a sliding pattern on your front bumper. It turns out I have an exact duplicate, in white, on my rear fender. It wasn’t me? You gotta come up with a better one than that. The vehicles were basically still touching. It wasn’t me. What? Am I on one of those hidden camera shows or something? This guy can’t honestly think I would believe “It wasn’t me” would cover it.
As the cacophony of horns and people yelling came to a crescendo, he caved in. “3 blocks up the road is a police station, we can file a report there,” he offers. Of course, then he bails and I never saw him again. What can I do in the micro-machine against this god of the road?
After the adrenaline settled I thought about how I am that guy. Ever since Adam and Eve looked at God straight-faced and said “It wasn’t me” we have been saying that, or at least I have. Every time I get caught with my hand in the cookie jar I quickly toss out “It wasn’t me,” and every time I do, I have to pay the consequences. The cool thing is one time, for everyone who ever shouted “It wasn’t me,” Jesus instantly jumped to our defense and said “Father treat this one like It was Me.”
Do you try to dodge responsibility when you are wrong? Do you have a hard time accepting Christ’s punishment in your place?