By Friday, the week had become its own parable.
- Monday’s outburst.
- Tuesday’s shame.
- Wednesday’s silence.
- Thursday’s softened vocabulary.
Friday arrived with its own brand of character development, the kind you don’t ask for but apparently need.
As I approached my fourth exit off the roundabout, I noticed one of those rare, glorious occurrences: the left lane was backed up, and the outside lane was almost empty. When this happens, I always wonder why people choose to sit in the queue instead of slipping into the clearer lane. But I don’t question it too deeply. I consider it a gift.
No need to fight for the left lane today.
Except, as always, I’m reminded of what usually happens next. The cars in the left lane begin that strange little scootch forward. The lane isn’t moving, but they inch ahead anyway, as if to say, We see you, and we don’t like that you’re getting ahead of us.
Their scoot is ineffective; of course, they can’t go anywhere because of the car in front of them. But I note it, as I always do. And as I glide past, I feel that tiny flicker of smugness at their foiled attempt.
Except today, before I could reach the smug moment, a car ahead of me in the left lane suddenly cut into my lane, right across my path, to make a right turn back onto the roundabout.
Annoying? Yes. Unbothered? Surprisingly, also yes.
But because he’d cut me off, I was now stuck until he could make his turn. And in that pause, my friend over in the left lane, the one who’d been scootching, managed to squeeze past.
And for some reason… that bothered me.
Which makes absolutely no sense. I’m now behind him. It makes no difference to my journey. Not a second gained or lost.
I pondered it: my sense of him begrudging me getting ahead, and then me begrudging him getting ahead. A petty little mirror. I rationalised it as human nature. But then I wondered if the whole “begrudging” narrative was entirely in my head. It’s possible he couldn’t have cared less.
Which makes my version of events seem… slightly psychotic.
I would hate to think I’m a psycho. I wonder if it’s possible to have psycho tendencies without being a psycho. Let it go.
And here’s what I’m learning: God isn’t waiting for me at the end of the week with a report card. He’s sitting beside me in the car, day after day, moment after moment, reaction after reaction.
Not condemning. Not tallying. Not shaking His head.
Just present. Just patient. Just forming me in the smallest, most ordinary places.
The roundabout isn’t the enemy. The commuters aren’t the enemy. My reactions aren’t the enemy.
The roundabout is my classroom. The commute is my curriculum. Grace is my teacher.
And on Monday, we’ll start again.
“Thank you for travelling through this week with me, for now the series ends here, but the formation continues in the ordinary places where grace keeps finding us.”
The Eleven One 
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