Pace Car

Though I was born in the South and am white, I am not a NASCAR fan. Adam and I have been to a couple of races at the Texas Motor Speedway, but that was only because we got free tickets in the mail from Marlboro. (We posed as smokers one night at a concert. Didn't have to actually smoke, just say that we did, and boom, we get all sorts of gifts in the mail from them.)

Before the race starts, they have a few warm-up laps, where the drivers drive around the speedway behind a pace car. They're not allowed to pass up the pace car. There are reasons for that.

As I've gotten older, my driving has slowed down. Don't get me wrong; I have a history of wild driving, and the driving record to prove it. Adam thinks I drive like an old lady now. Somedays, though, the temperature is just right, the windows are down, and I'm rocking out and hitting the gas. I'll be zooming along and then have to slam on my breaks because some jerk in front of me is actually going the speed limit. After I hit the brakes and take a deep breath, I usually see a police officer on the side of the road. Then I thank God for putting the pace car in front of me and saving me from a ticket or a wreck.

I think God often puts pace cars in front of me to slow me down. Sometimes my pace car is one of my elderly friends. I'll go over to Jo's house, and time will stand still. Sometimes it's one of my children, who bring a toy to me and remind me that there are more important activities than housework. Sometimes it's a stranger who offers a small act of kindness when I'm struggling.

Even as a stay-at-home mom, my life runs a break-neck speeds. I am grateful when I am forced to slow down and appreciate life. Pace cars are blessings.