I should have seen it coming. I should have seen it coming as I scampered out of the parent-teacher conference, hoping parents who were familiar with my years-long battle with seizures would notice it was Mr. Utomo’s wife who was driving home to save the day. I definitely should’ve seen it coming as I caught myself speeding down Monterey highway, clocking close to 60 mph in a 45 mph zone. Perhaps I should’ve seen it coming as early as last year, when I delighted in recounting Ivan’s humorous – and costly – collision with the newly-placed bollards separating San Jose’s bike and car lanes.

But I did not see it coming.

A couple of weeks ago, Ivan was facilitating the final informational meeting for the international trip he leads every June for Valley Christian. In 2023, we went to London and Paris, and last year we visited Japan. This year we’re heading to Austria, Hungary, and Czechia, so stay tuned for my post-trip recap!

The evening of Ivan’s presentation we arrived 15 minutes early, which allowed plenty of time to set up the PowerPoint and greet hyper-punctual parents. Until we discovered that Ivan brought his backpack sans laptop. He has been relatively inseparable from his laptop since I met him in 2013. Nevertheless, now was not the time to delve into the philosophical or psychological implications of this anomaly. Now was the time for action.

“No problem!” I beamed, delighted to be of more vital assistance than passing out medication release forms – a job that can also be performed by a well-placed chair. “I’ll dash home and grab the laptop. Be back soon!”

We live about seven minutes from school. I calculated that the meeting might start a couple of minutes late, but If Ivan opened with a Q&A instead of his presentation, there wouldn’t be a material loss. 

Ivan’s laptop was lying on the coffee table – within easy reach of the door – when I burst into our living room at 5:50 pm, adrenaline pumping and fully prepared to go to herculean measures in order to locate the missing equipment. Nonplussed, I fired off a quick “Heading back now” text and dashed out to our white Hyundai.

Something I haven’t mentioned in my posts about re-learning to drive is my lack of depth perception. To me, the world looks flat. This is not a result of my accident. I was born without depth perception, and I learned to compensate for this when I began driving as a teenager. Basically, I need to drive slower and allow more space between myself and surrounding objects than other drivers.

But that night, I wasn’t thinking about my vision. I was amused that Ivan had been separated from his laptop for the first time in over a decade, and delighted that I was earning my keep as his assistant and showing off my relatively new driving skills to parents I only see a couple of times a year.

I didn’t see the post.

Our condo has a carport. Our parking spot is flanked by our neighbors’ SUV on one side, and a wooden post on the other. Although I got my driver’s license back over six months ago, I still back out of the carport with trepidation, cognizant that even a tiny error might damage our car or our neighbor’s.

Nevertheless, that night I was fixated on the impending triumph of passing Ivan his laptop in front of a roomful of parents. I accelerated out of our carport for the first time in my driving career until –  POP! A pistol crack caused me to slam on brakes.

 Our right passenger’s mirror lay shattered in our parking spot, neatly clipped off by the carport post. There had been no warning – just instant, irreversible damage. All thoughts of a hero’s re-entry to the parent-teacher conference were instantly replaced with the realization that what I’d just done to our car was far more costly than Ivan forgetting his laptop.

I also realized that my husband was still waiting on me to deliver said laptop. And he’d get anxious very quickly if I did not materialize soon after texting I was on my way back. All I could do was breathe a quick prayer for God’s protection and commence a very tentative return journey to school, painstakingly checking my right blind spot every few seconds.

Ivan’s smile of delight when he saw me trudging down the hallway with the laptop cut like a razor. 

“Thank you so much – “ he began, but I cut him off.

“Just start.” I hissed, then added apologetically. “We’ll talk later.”

Somehow I endured the lengthy presentation and passed out the medication forms with a smile, all the while wishing Ivan had selected a chair as his assistant instead of me. Chairs do not rack up exorbitant car repair bills. 

Now that I’ve had time to reflect on this incident, I can see God using it in several ways. While the mirror is costing more and taking longer to fix than we’d anticipated, it’s also a relatively mild way to sanctify my need to be needed. My driving record is still “clean” and the only thing besides our car that got seriously hurt was my pride. Ivan responded to my confession with textbook compassion, and has not complained about the difficulties of driving – or parking – without a mirror since then. I’ve learned that, given my vision, there’s no extenuating circumstance that justifies rushing when I’m in the driver’s seat. I’ve also been reminded that any help I may be able to offer someone is a privilege, and the moment I begin taking credit for it is the moment I risk turning a God-given gift into something damaging. 

Now to finish fixing that mirror…