A woman in a government agency was mean to me, so naturally I tore out of the parking lot crying. Bleary eyed and sobbing, I slid on a patch of ice, bounced off the guardrails and totaled Chris' grandmother's Ford Escort.
I was sad and angry at the timing of that wreck: I was trying to finish student teaching; I had not planned on getting pregnant when Caleb was only five months-old; Chris was battling some hard-core back problems; And we had just finished paying off our credit card and closing the account, but were forced to open it up again to replace the car. I was one hot mess, as my sister likes to say.
Up until a few weeks ago, I thought about that wreck almost every time I drove over that bridge. Not about how God pulled us through that stressful time in our lives. How I graduated, and our bills were paid and Santa showed up for real and Chris' back was fixed to live-able because of a client.
Only about the mean lady's face, with her turquoise eye shadow and red nails, the loss of control of the car, me wailing a guttural "NOOOOOO!", the seatbelt bruise and the struggle to get it all straightened out.
Then a funny thing happened on a late night drive home from a gig. As I drove over the bridge I saw this:
A strange altar reminding me not to revise the blessings out of the catastrophes.