The Left Lane

The snow had come down relentlessly during the night, and as the sun came up, I was making the one-hour trip to Holland for a lecture and a funeral. The highways had been plowed at some point, and for the most part at least one of the lanes was clear enough to kinda sorta make out the lines; otherwise we followed the tire grooves, moving into the passing lane only when necessary.

Traffic moved sanely, and at a satisfactory pace, even those cars and semis that chose to pass. As I got used to the feel of the road, even I occasionally took to the passing lane, successfully negotiating my way around one car at a time. But about two miles before my exit, I got behind a line of traffic that was going slower than it needed to, held up by a slow-moving semi.  The cars in front of me did not pull out to pass, and because I didn’t want to attempt passing five vehicles in the dicey left lane, I slowed down and joined the caravan.  I had plenty of time and just a short distance to go, so it was an easy choice to relax and go with the flow.

As more traffic caught up to our line, those cars also slowed down. While not wanting to risk the left lane but clearly wishing we were all moving a little quicker, they demonstrated their frustration by traveling uncomfortably close to my bumper, given the slick conditions. I was relieved to pull off at my exit, and even more relieved to park at my destination.

The lecture focused on the first Japanese, Native American, and African-American graduates of Hope College. The college had opened its doors to these young men in the days when it was less-than-fashionable to do so, and in return, the grads left the college with not only their degrees, but with a deep appreciation for liberal arts education and the role of faith in life. Each of them had long and successful careers in ministry or education. They spent their lives giving back by influencing and educating others.

After the lecture, I walked three snowy blocks to attend the funeral of my Uncle Bill. Okay, he’s technically not my uncle; Bill’s brother Jim was my stepmother Mickie’s first husband. When my dad and Mickie married, Bill and his wife Elsie welcomed my dad, and all of his children, with open arms. We were all one family—no question. Their hospitality and their enormous love taught me that family cannot—should not—be limited by blood lines. After Mickie’s death in 2006, and even more so after Elsie’s recent death, my dad and Bill were close, like brothers.

Bill’s funeral reminded us of the scope of his life. In many ways, Bill was a blessed man. Money, talent, opportunities, the love and support of a strong family; all of these were Bill’s, and he shared these gifts generously. But his life was not without sadness, even tragedy.  The funeral was a beautiful testimony to a life well lived, a life underscored with grace and unwavering faith in the face of both suffering and blessings.

Our life journey is influenced by those with whom we share the road: teachers, mentors, family. They shape and mold us. Some of these people are given to us, and some we can choose. But when we cannot choose those with whom we travel, we must make the choice of how to travel with them. We can let them frustrate us or slow us down. And sometimes our best option is to fall in line until we can appropriately exit.  

Or we can embrace them and find a way to love them. It can be a risky road, but it’s the road of the most positive influence.