Mea Culpa

Years ago, in the pitch of morning, I drove my daughter to work. I remember that trip well: the crisp, thin air, a quartet of deer stilled by our headlights, the lullaby of our quiet conversation in the moonless sky before daybreak. I glanced sideways at my girl, who swiped Vaseline–Crème Brûlée–across her lips with ease, not missing a beat as we chatted.

How beautiful, how still the wide, winding road that drew us across the lake and up the hill.

Watch out for the deer, Mom, said Lauren.

I nodded, turning on my truck’s high beams.

It’s so dark, I said, as our headlights illuminated another pair of speckled fawns.

Minutes later, as we looped out of our neighborhood onto the main road, I gently accelerated. The road was ours and ours alone, until one car entered from a side street, ahead of us.

After a few seconds, the driver began pumping his brakes, red lights pulsing, repeatedly. And then he slowed way down to a crawl, while continuing to pump his brakes.

Why is he doing that? I said.

So strange, said Lauren. Something’s off.

I agree, I said, slowing to keep our distance.

For the next few minutes, the pattern repeated. Braking and slowing, braking and slowing.

By this time, we had become a mother-daughter duet: Is he a serial killer? A madman? Kidnapper? Convict?

One thing was true: Lauren could not afford to be late for work, and one glance at the dashboard clock told me she would be tardy unless I stepped on it.

Double-checking that our doors were locked, I accelerated.

The effect was instantaneous: The car’s incessant braking was now accompanied by fist-pumping, a jacketed arm protruding thickly from the passenger window.

And in a flash, I realized.

My high beams were on, and for over a mile I had been blinding this poor man.

A man now enraged.

I groaned as I fumbled to dim my lights, moaning an embarrassed apology in the dark.

The driver took off, peeling out and blasting his horn for good measure.

My heart was thumping as I slowly exhaled.

All was quiet.

And then my daughter snickered, smothering a laugh. Her giggle proved contagious, and I joined in. Soon, we could not catch our breath or even complete a sentence as we gasped until we cried, able to utter only a few words that sent us straight into another roar: convict? serial killer? madman?

How pathetic, our assumptions.

I considered him a lunatic when, in fact, I was the cause of his blinding misery.

Mea Culpa.

My fault.

***

There are times when we mean no harm, but our carelessness hurts others. It is good and right to be able to look squarely in the mirror and say: My fault.

If the scenario were reversed, and I were blinded by another driver’s lights, how might I extend grace rather than rage? Would I be slow to impute bad motives and speedy to forgive?