“I’m not in control of the car.”
One hour into our annual Thanksgiving road trip to North Carolina, my husband’s words interrupted my slumber. In a matter of seconds, our van, traveling over 70 mph, hit a patch of black ice, lost traction, slipped across the road, and slammed into the cable median, which spun us back onto the road — but now facing oncoming traffic. Regaining control of the car, my husband urged our now-totaled Toyota Sienna across two lanes of traffic and up a divinely appointed exit ramp. As we made our way across those lanes, I noted the pieces of our wreckage littering the interstate and watched as another car hit the same patch of black ice and flew off the shoulder just as we cleared the road. The whole incident lasted ten, maybe fifteen seconds, affording us only enough time to alert our kids to the danger and cry to Jesus for help. And help he did.
In shock, we checked on one another. The car was totaled, but God had delivered us from any bodily harm. We spontaneously praised God for sparing us after this fresh confrontation with the fragility of life. Then, in the hours that followed, as the shock wore off, curiosity took hold.
