I was stuck in traffic last week beside a hearse. It didn’t look like it had carried any, um, passengers in at least two decades, what with its faded white body and tacky, tattered curtains. Did it have dice? I think it had dice. Regardless, it wierded me out and put my heart on blast. Since watching my dad die in July, every time I feel threatened, my heart races like a hamster in a cage. But that’s another story for another time.
So, the sketchy hearse. I sped up to put it behind me, only to watch it gain ground on me half a minute a later. I let it get out in front of me, thinking I could lose sight of it that way, but it only consumed my view. Then traffic slowed and there we were, side by side again. We continued like this for a few miles, me trying to avoid it, it ending up beside me. I couldn’t out smart or out run it, so I finally just let it be. Eventually I got where I was going, and nobody died.
Grief is like that, I’m learning. If you try to keep it in the rear-view mirror, it won’t stay there long. Objects are closer than they appear and all. If you maneuver it to your blind spot, you’re asking for an expensive collision. If all you do is stare at it through your dirty windshield, you won’t have a clear view of where God wants to take you next.
When you let it travel beside you as a companion and not a creepy weirdo, you just might spot a promise up ahead.