I’ll admit I’ve perfected the art of back-seat driving. Not to brag, but I can apply my imaginary brake from anywhere in the car, including the front passenger seat — and can even warn the driver without saying a word.
You see, I have a habit of flinching when I sense the car in the next lane is getting dangerously close — and then grabbing what my niece calls the “Oh, shoot” handle attached to the ceiling.
At that point, many drivers quietly roll their eyes— unless they know me well, in which case they chuckle.
I envy passengers who aren’t tempted to mentally usurp the wheel — those sedate souls who implicitly trust that the driver will do everything possible to avoid an accident.
My husband was a patient man and a fine driver, but one time in Florida, he was driving my aunt, my cousin and me to Mass — and when he made a left turn with ongoing traffic just a hair close, the only person in the car seized with terror was — you guessed it — yours truly.
“Jesus Christ!” I shouted in fear — and when everyone gave me a startled look, I said shamefacedly, “That was a prayer.”
When it comes to prayer, I’m afraid I tell God over and over what’s in my heart, and what’s troubling me — but instead of sitting back and letting him drive, I keep an eye out for dangers and stomp the brakes nervously now and again.
“Yes, God, I know that I said, ‘Thy will be done,’ but in this case, couldn’t you make an exception?”
Then I tell him a bunch of details about twists and turns in the road ahead that maybe he hasn’t taken into account — as if he didn’t already know everything.
A year ago, my life seemed to be sailing serenely down a sunny street — and the biggest decision facing me and my husband was whether we should move to Florida when he retired in a few years.
But then he died, and everything came crashing down around me — and my prayer life took a decidedly different turn.
Suddenly I identified strongly with the Trappist monk Thomas Merton, who wrote, “My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end.”
I’m totally with Merton when it comes to the road ahead, because I can’t see beyond today. Can I really put everything into God’s hands?
Stop advising him about plans I had mapped out? Stop protesting when he steers me down a dark and scary path?
In “Thoughts in Solitude,” Merton decided to rely on God, no matter what — even on the bleakest and loneliest days.
“I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost … for you will never leave me to face my perils alone.”
My prayer now is to take these words to heart — and truly trust the Lord. That means giving up my back-seat driving license — at least when it comes to God.
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