Freeway Faith

It happened just the other day.

Some idiot in an old Buick pulled right out in front of me, forcing me to slam on my brakes to avoid slicing his car in half. He was either too stupid or too occupied on his cell phone to even notice me shaking my fist and uttering a string of profanities long, loud and nasty enough to make even my old Drill Instructor blush. (One time, in boot camp…my fellow inmates and I counted—he used the For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge expletive nearly seventy times in the span of one minute).

I can't tell you how many times I've wished for one of James Bond's Aston Martins decked out with a few of Q's stinger missiles hidden behind the headlights.

“Don't you do it! Don't you dare pull out...oh you *&%$#@! Take this! Haha! You're sorry you pulled out in front of me now, aren't ya!? Yeaaaaah...”

I usually only have these episodes when I'm alone. By and large, I try keep my composure when I'm driving with my wife, though she's made enough comments that I know I'm not always entirely successful. An ex-girlfriend said she genuinely disliked me when I got behind the wheel.

It's not that I'm a bad driver. Just an aggressive and intolerant one. I hate it that I always seem to be a magnet for the most incompetent motorists on the road. My brother-in-law has a bumper sticker that gives me grins every time I read it: “Why am I the only only person on earth who knows how to drive?” Amen, brother.

I've been thinking lately that life is a lot like a freeway. You're moving forward, toward a destination somewhere in the unseen distance, which is good, but it's not always swift or effortless. Sometimes you're racing along and other times you're stuck in a traffic jam. Other drivers get in your way. There are detours and roadblocks to hinder your momentum. Sometimes you have to exit one road and merge into traffic on another going in a completely different direction. And sometimes, you're the victim (perpetrator) of a minor fender-bender or a catastrophic accident that destroys your chance to get to where you're going and even that of those around you.

The problem is, I don't like myself when I drive.

I'm at my worst when I'm behind the wheel. I'm my most unforgiving, most angry, most ungraceful when on the road. If the road to wherever is a metaphor for the road of life, I'm in trouble. If there is one situation where my actions deviate the most from the ideals of my faith, it is in my car. And that shames me.

And what happens when Superior Driver Me does something dumb—cuts someone off, changes lanes without noticing that car in my blind spot? “Yeah, yeah, get over it,” I holler aloud to the driver gesticulating wildly behind me. The difference, I tell myself, is that I had a temporary lapse of judgment while everyone else is stuck in perpetual driving ignorance. Yeah, sure Brandon...you keep telling yourself that.

Where is my love for the guy who is going twenty miles below the speed limit on a crowded two-lane road? Where is my forgiveness for the lady who just changed lanes and almost side-swiped me? Where is my grace for the guy who just intentionally cut me off?

If I can't display Christian attributes during something as innocuous and irrelevant as driving my car, how do I expect to apply them when life comes at me with far more vicious and agonizing attacks? Am I really so deluded as to think that the two aren't related—that my responses to the little things will not also rear their ugly heads in the midst of the truly big things?

Can my road rage be anything other than sin?

If so, I desperately need to check my map. I have a feeling I'm headed in the wrong direction. Or worse yet, toward a horrible accident.