I used to live in
One day, I was on my way to meet someone for lunch, and I was running a little late. I got behind an old Ford truck—I mean an old Ford truck—about a 1947 or ’48 vintage. This truck was not one of those chopped-down, hoodless, magnesium-rimmed, fat-tired, two four-barrelled, supercharged, chrome-plated, flame-painted, T-bucket, 427, hot-rod Chevys that occasionally graces the streets of this fair city and wreaks havoc upon the mental serenity of its sober, stable, and conservative citizenry. No, this was a genuine, fresh-off-the-farm, original-condition, original-owner, original-driver, legitimate work truck, with real cow manure in the bed. It was driven (perhaps “pointed” would be more accurate) by a white-haired, bib-overalled, toothpick-chewing, cowboy-hat-wearing, red-faced farmer, whose neck had more wrinkles and creases in it
than a topographical map.
He was in my lane, both hands gripping the steering wheel, moving sedately at about fifteen miles per hour. Because there was traffic on both sides, I could do absolutely nothing, except blow my stack and my horn at the stupid clodhopper who had the unmitigated effrontery to impede the progress of such an important personage as myself. About thirty yards from the next intersection, the light turned yellow. I hit the accelerator—he hit the brakes. He stopped. So did I—but not very gracefully—about two inches from his back bumper. All the papers that were sitting on the passenger seat slid onto the floor in mass confusion. I saw him look at me in his rearview mirror and slowly shake his head in a sort of sad, condescending way.
As we waited for the light to change, I noticed this sticker on his tailgate— “I may be slow, but I’m ahead of you.”
Well, that absolutely did it.When the light changed, I jammed the accelerator to the floor. Burning rubber with both tires, I jumped into the right lane between two cars, veered into a right-turn lane, and blew past the car on my left. Just as I was running out of turn lane, I cut back to the left, in front of the car I had just passed, and then pulled in front of the Ford truck. I felt like A. J. Foyt just winning the
I broke every speed law ever invented in a determined effort to make the next light—and I would have—except there was a police car sitting at the next light facing me. I locked up all four wheels and screeched sideways to a stop about halfway through the intersection. I sat there with blue smoke from my tires drifting and gathering around me. Then I had to suffer the humiliation of having to back up in order to clear the intersection. Traffic had stopped in every direction, and I was the object of much horn blowing, head shaking, and unwanted attention from the man in blue. It’s really hard to act cool and nonchalant in situations like that. About fifteen seconds later, who should pull up next to me but my toothpick-chewing friend. I tried so hard not to look in his direction, to ignore him, to act casual, but I had my T-top removed and my windows down, and I could feel him looking at me.
Finally, I looked up, right into two watery blue eyes.
“Where ya goin’, Sonny?”
It was the emphasis on the “Sonny” that got me. Too embarrassed and frustrated to make a clever reply, I said,
“Absolutely nowhere.”
“Well,” he said, with a West Texas drawl, “I’m sure you’ll be the first one there. “
There are few things in life so absolutely humbling as the full realization that—you have made a complete fool of yourself.
There are several distinct ways of dealing with this realization, but the most satisfactory way of dealing with it is to laugh. I don’t mean to smile or chuckle—I mean a doubled-over, tears-streaming-down, thigh-slapping laugh that leaves you choking and breathless. It is even preferable that you relate your foolishness to someone else and let them laugh with you, or at you. What’s wrong with being laughed at? Only our ego-centered pride denies others the pleasure of laughing at our foolishness.
Humility, on the other hand, has the ability to save us from ourselves and bring relief to our frustrated and stressful lives. Humility allows us to receive grace from God and to accept it from others. Humility gives us, and those about us, unlimited access to one of life’s greatest pleasures—laughter.
Laughter is one of the cheapest and most healing medicines that God has ever bestowed upon His people. How sad that this healing balm is denied—both to ourselves and to others—by our ridiculous pride.