Speeding Home

Speeding Home

This is an older story but it's a must-read for anyone who never has.

Jack took a long look at his speedometer before slowing down: 73 in a 55 zone. Fourth time in as many months. How could a guy get caught so often?


When his car had slowed to 10 miles an hour, Jack pulled over, but only partially. Let the cop worry about the potential traffic hazard. Maybe some other car will tweak his backside with a mirror. The cop was stepping out of his car, the big pad in hand.


Bob? Bob from Church? Jack sunk farther into his trench coat. This was worse than the coming ticket. A cop catching a guy from his own church. A guy who happened to be a little eager to get home after a long day at the office. A guy he was about to play golf with tomorrow.


Jumping out of the car, he approached a man he saw every Sunday, a man he'd never seen in uniform.


"Hi, Bob. Fancy meeting you like this."


"Hello, Jack." No smile.


"Guess you caught me red-handed in a rush to see my wife and kids."


"Yeah, I guess." Bob seemed uncertain. Good.


"I've seen some long days at the office lately. I'm afraid I bent the rules a bit - just this once."


Jack toed at a pebble on the pavement. "Diane said something about roast beef and potatoes tonight. Know what I mean?"


"I know what you mean. I also know that you have a reputation in our precinct." Ouch. This was not going in the right direction. Time to change tactics.


"What'd you clock me at?"


"Seventy. Would you sit back in your car, please?"


"Now wait a minute here, Bob. I checked as soon as saw you. I was barely nudging 65." The lie seemed to come easier with every ticket.


"Please, Jack, in the car"


Flustered, Jack hunched himself through the still-open door. Slamming it shut, he stared at the dashboard. He was in no rush to open the window.


The minutes ticked by. Bob scribbled away on the pad.


Why hadn't he asked for a driver's license?


Whatever the reason, it would be a month of Sundays before Jack ever sat near this cop again. A tap on the door jerked his head to the left. There was Bob, a folded paper in hand Jack rolled down the window a mere two inches, just enough room for Bob to pass him the slip.


"Thanks." Jack could not quite keep the sneer out of his voice.


Bob returned to his police car without a word. Jack watched his retreat in the mirror. Jack unfolded the sheet of paper. How much was this one going to cost?


Wait a minute. What was this? Some kind of joke?


Certainly not a ticket. Jack began to read:
"Dear Jack, Once upon a time I had a daughter. She was six when killed by a car. You guessed it- a speeding driver. A fine and three months in jail, and the man was free. Free to hug his daughters, all three of them. I only had one, and I'm going to have to wait until Heaven before I can ever hug her again.


A thousand times I've tried to forgive that man. A thousand times I thought I had. Maybe I did, but I need to do it again. Even now. Pray for me. And be careful, Jack, my son is all I have left." -- Bob


Jack turned around in time to see Bob's car pull away and head down the road. Jack watched until it disappeared. A full 15 minutes later, he too, pulled away and drove slowly home, praying for forgiveness and hugging a surprised wife and kids when he arrived.

How Fast Is Grace?

I have an American friend whose experience gives us some insight into the doctrine of the grace of God. He had just returned from Vietnam where he had served in the US Army. Upon his release he had sufficient funds to fulfill a long-time desire to own a new Jaguar. 

Early one morning he was driving in a remotely populated part of Oklahoma which, he reasoned, was the perfect place to find out how fast the car could go. The speedometer was easing its way past 160 as the powerful sports car reached the top of a small rise. Just beyond, a highway patrolman was waiting. As a law-abiding citizen, my friend slammed on the brakes, slid past the officer at 150 miles per hour, and came to a halt some distance down the road.

Before long, the officer caught up and stood beside the sleek convertible. 

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?” he inquired. 

“Well, roughly,” was the deliberately evasive reply. “One hundred sixty-three miles per hour!” the officer specified.

“That’s about what I thought,” my friend confessed, somewhat sheepishly. Guilt was obvious, and there was no possible excuse to be offered. My friend could only wait to discover what this fiasco was going to cost. He meekly waited for the officer to proceed. 

To his amazement the patrolman queried, “Would you mind if I took a look at that engine?”

The fine points of high performance automobiles cannot be discussed quickly, so both went on to a coffee shop where they could talk further. 

A while later, both of the men shook hands and went their separate ways. My friend was elated, for the officer had not given him a citation.

That is about as close to grace as one can come on this earth, but it is still not quite up to the standard of biblical grace.

(I say that because biblical grace would be demonstrated only if the patrolman had paid for the coffee.)