I was lucky. So he said. And so said all of my friends and family when I relayed the story to them later. According to them, God had been watching over me; He stopped my car at the edge of the hill. In the Chicken Soup version of this story, I would be filled with gratitude and tear up a little at the thought of some glowing angel stopping my car at the last moment. But in reality, I didn't tear up. I tracked God down, gave Him a good hard stare, and demanded to know if that was true—if He was directly responsible for my survival.
I was actually, factually angry. Not angry that I had been spared—I can't describe the rage that overtook me when I believed I was about to die. No, I was angry that having been spared made no sense to me. I was angry that all of my friends were telling me that God preserved me when I can't turn on my car radio without hearing about another fatality on the freeway.
So what was the deal? I'm not any more special than any of those folks who did roll down the hill. I certainly don't have any world-changing missions in the works. So why?
I still don't know. And I still bring it up in prayer from time to time. But all I ever get back from Him is a quiet, steady, wouldn't-you-like-to-know smile. I suspect this is the best I can expect for a while. Or perhaps this is the best I can expect ever. Maybe that's the whole point. Maybe the whole reason I spun off the highway was so I could get some practice in faithy-style faith . . . the kind where I have to love without understanding and accept redemption I don't necessarily deserve. The scary kind of faith. The kind I generally avoid.
Or maybe my car is just that amazing.
My faith is too delicate
to even speak some days.
It is a flower, a vase, a glass
that I fear doubt can break.
But I shall not leave it
on a shelf collecting dust.
I shall not place it out of reach—
something I see, but never use.
So fill me, over and over,
Help me to believe in Your
constant, unceasing strength.