While I was the pastor of
West End United Methodist Church in
Portsmouth,
Virginia, I took a carload of ladies from the church to a Lyman Coleman small group seminar in
Virginia Beach. The large auditorium at Virginia Beach UMC was filled with round tables, and seminar participants were assigned to sit at different tables so no two people from the same church shared a table.
Dr. Coleman then began the warm-up session by providing us with questions to ask each other at our table. One of the questions was “How many speeding tickets have you been given since you started driving?”
I, of course, had the most of anyone at our table, and as it turned out the most of anyone at the seminar: eleven.
Much to my chagrin Dr. Coleman then had us share some of our answers, and I had to stand and announce to the entire room that I had accumulated eleven speeding tickets in the twenty five years that I had been driving.
The ladies from
West End Church seemed a little hesitant to get back into my car for the drive back to the church at the close of the seminar.
Who could blame them?
I decided right then and there that I would do better, drive better, and get no more speeding tickets.
And the only way to absolutely be sure that I didn’t get another speeding ticket would be to never again speed.
Ever.
Easy, right?
Read on…
The next week was Thanksgiving. My son, Sam, was in the first grade, and had invited me to join him for the school’s Thanksgiving Lunch on the last day of school before the Thanksgiving Holiday break. I had some ill parishioners across town that I needed to visit that day but I felt that I could see them and still make it to his school in plenty of time. The problem was that at the last home I visited I found the wife to be in quite a bit of distress over her husband’s illness, so I took some extra time to listen to and console her, occasionally checking the time on her mantle clock. They were an elderly couple, and I could see that worry was taking its toll on them. As we chatted she invited me to lunch. As I glanced again at her clock I politely explained that I was to have lunch with my son at his school at noon.
“Oh dear!” she said, looking beyond me to a clock on the wall behind me, “You don’t have much time to get there, it’s already eleven forty-five!”
“What?!” I exclaimed, quickly turning to see the wall clock, then turning back to again check the mantle clock. Pointing toward it I said, “That clock says eleven-fifteen!”
“Oh, I know,” she giggled, “its run slow for years. I suppose we really should get it repaired but we’re so used to it now we never think anything of it.”
I said a hasty prayer, apologized, and ran from the house to my car. Over my shoulder I heard her exclaim, “You be careful now!”
I probably don’t have to tell you what happened next. Every light between her house and Sam’s school turned red just as I got to it, and then I seemed to be behind every slow driver in the entire city whenever I was were I could not pass. I prayed, I fumed, and I swore that I would never again be late! I was determined to keep my word and not speed. That promise was harder to keep when at last I was on the freeway and the lanes were open, and there was nothing to stop me.
I was torn between wanting to be there on time for Sam (I hated the thought of him believing that I had forgotten, and let him down), and wanting to not speed (I had to get this speeding compulsion under control). So, I sang hymns, and then I prayed. I knew that I was going to be at least ten minutes late, unless I gave in and hit that accelerator hard. I also knew that if I got pulled over for speeding I would be even later. So I prayed that, first of all, I get to Sam’s school safely, and secondly, that he not be too upset. I asked that God please help me to get there by twelve-ten.
At eight minutes past noon I pulled into the school parking lot, found a parking place almost immediately, and walked through the doors of the school at 12:10 pm! When I started to stop to get a pass at the office the secretary waved me on. Down the hall was the “cafetorium” and I could already hear the loud but happy sounds of the children.
I stepped into the room, and was overwhelmed by the sight before me: there were more than seven hundred children, all of them wearing paper head décor. There were Indians with a single, colorful feather, maidens with white bonnets, and pilgrims with tall black hats. How was I ever going to find Sam?
As I scanned the sea of children’s festive headdresses I saw something different: one tiny hand in the air. I stopped there, and my eyes looked from the hand to the eyes of a tiny Indian’s face beaming at me. Sam. I rushed over to his table, prepared to apologize. His teacher saw me coming and stood and indicated an empty seat beside Sam. She then directed me to get my tray and come join them.
When I was seated, Sam beside me, his teacher across from us, I again started to explain why I was late and to apologize. But his teacher stopped me with these words, “Sam made me save you a place, Mr. Harris, because he said that his daddy would never forget to come to Thanksgiving Dinner.”
Time seemed to stand still at that moment, as a wave of emotion rushed over me. I slowly sat down, and glancing at Sam, who was happily engaged in eating his lunch, I had a profound realization: Sam placed more trust in me as his father than I deserved, but my Heavenly Father wanted me to have just such a child-like trust in Him. Then, as I tried getting the turkey and mashed potatoes past the lump in my throat, I also realized that despite what anyone’s watch or clock might have said, when I entered that room I was, in fact, right on time.
Sometimes trusting God means not allowing what seems to be true to be all we will settle for; it sometimes means believing that which is not seen, but is truly real and really true nonetheless.
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." - Hebrews 11:1 (KJV)
