When the heart of darkness sees the light…
A message in a holiday letter starts in heavy traffic, and finds its way into far deeper territory — the kind you don’t see coming, even with all the warning signs.
Composing the letter for our 2025 holiday cards challenged me not only to look around – but look within.
I found inspiration in Jesuit priest Gregory Boyle’s Cherished Belonging, a book I reviewed here earlier in the year.
In his conclusion, Boyle writes:
“We all want to find our way out to the clearing, where we can see others beyond our tribes. …
Part of our intentionality is to surrender and to cease fighting and stop resisting. Our surrender allows us to open our hands in order to be held.”
I shuddered when I re-read that.
A few weeks ago, my unwillingness to surrender led to one of the scariest moments of my life.
On a recent Thursday evening, I was heading to my weekly bowling league on a street where roadwork was being done in the far-right lane. A few blocks before, signs indicated the work, and I moved to the left lane.
As I entered the block of the roadwork, a black SUV in front of me moved out of the left lane into the right where the work was being done. I moved ahead.
The driver of the SUV, realizing his mistake, tried to merge back into the left lane. We were entering an intersection.
He muscled into the lane, and I hit my brakes and my horn.
He settled in the left lane, and we moved beyond the roadwork.
I knew I would turn right in a few blocks, so I got into the right lane. He decided to do the same. I hit my horn as he tried to move in front of me, then went behind me and into a shoulder to pass on my right and get in front.
By now, I knew this was road rage.
What scared me was that the rage was as much mine as his.
We turned.
About a block later, between stoplights, he slammed on his brakes, got out of his vehicle and came toward me, screaming.
I was so frightened I couldn’t be sure whether there were cars behind me blocking my way out. At least I had the sense to keep my doors locked and windows shut. I heard him scream, “Do that again, and I will f—ing kill you!” He got back in his vehicle.
I was shaking.
By now other cars had caught up to us. I slowly stayed in the right lane until enough vehicles had gotten between us to complete the rest of my drive. I checked to make sure he was nowhere near where I turned to go to the bowling alley.
This incident continued to haunt me weeks later.
- I could have been gracious from the outset and permitted him to return to the lane once he’d realized his error.
- I could have shrugged and held off my horn when he muscled back into the lane.
- I could have slowed down and let him move in front of me to turn right.
- I could have done any or all of these things.
So sure that I was in the right: I did not.
I was wrong.
I could have been dead wrong.
As I thought about what Boyle said, I began to see the light.
- The driver could be someone I’d encounter in a restaurant,
- At the movies,
- Or at the Y.
- Perhaps a fellow parishioner?
- Or a parent of one of my students?
If we met again – with any luck, off the road – would we even recognize each other? When I sat down to compose this year’s holiday letter, I couldn’t help but think about all of this.
How do we hold firm to who we are when the heat of the moment tempts us to lose ourselves?
Boyle’s message is clear:
Open our hands.
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Man, that seemed to be scary as hell, thank God it didn’t end bad.