Cruising along at 60 mph, I made my trek up I-80 to my normal exit. A dark green semi drove along beside me, but I paid little attention, captivated by how beautiful the weather was for mid February. I cracked the window, basked in the sunlight, and took delight in turning off my car heater for the first time this year.
Seconds later, the green semi started making its way into my lane. His large body towering next to mine and closing in at rapid speed, I quickly pulled my car a little to the right, hugging the shoulder and speeding up so I could escape his inevitable emergence across the yellow line. “What are you doing?” I gasped in the process.
As I pulled enough ahead of him into certain safety, I noticed my heart beating quickly. “I forgot to honk.” The words came out loud. I always do that. I focus on avoiding the accident instead of notifying the other driver that they’re about to cause it.
David says I should do both at once - avoid and announce, swerve and honk.
But today, as I repeated the same old blunder, I made a discovery. I respond like this not only with large, green semi trucks, but with people too. I guess the word for it is “pushover.”
Sometimes people creep towards the yellow boundary line, whether intentionally or not, and threaten to crush my small white frame. Although avoiding them will sometimes succeed in averting disaster, I often “forget to honk.” I need to speak up. I need to enforce my boundaries. I need to be downright honest sometimes. It’s not rude, it’s practical. It prevents disaster.
What should I say then, to the woman at church who stood about 2 inches from my face last Sunday, upset over a small issue? Or how about the gentleman who called the church wanting immediate financial assistance, who lashed out at me saying, “You’re not working for me! You’re supposed to be working for me.” What about a friend who asks me to support a decision I know is wrong? And even subtler still, what about those people in life who want the benefits of friendship, but not the sacrifices? Where are the lines? Where is my nerve? Where is my horn?
Seconds later, the green semi started making its way into my lane. His large body towering next to mine and closing in at rapid speed, I quickly pulled my car a little to the right, hugging the shoulder and speeding up so I could escape his inevitable emergence across the yellow line. “What are you doing?” I gasped in the process.
As I pulled enough ahead of him into certain safety, I noticed my heart beating quickly. “I forgot to honk.” The words came out loud. I always do that. I focus on avoiding the accident instead of notifying the other driver that they’re about to cause it.
David says I should do both at once - avoid and announce, swerve and honk.
But today, as I repeated the same old blunder, I made a discovery. I respond like this not only with large, green semi trucks, but with people too. I guess the word for it is “pushover.”
Sometimes people creep towards the yellow boundary line, whether intentionally or not, and threaten to crush my small white frame. Although avoiding them will sometimes succeed in averting disaster, I often “forget to honk.” I need to speak up. I need to enforce my boundaries. I need to be downright honest sometimes. It’s not rude, it’s practical. It prevents disaster.
What should I say then, to the woman at church who stood about 2 inches from my face last Sunday, upset over a small issue? Or how about the gentleman who called the church wanting immediate financial assistance, who lashed out at me saying, “You’re not working for me! You’re supposed to be working for me.” What about a friend who asks me to support a decision I know is wrong? And even subtler still, what about those people in life who want the benefits of friendship, but not the sacrifices? Where are the lines? Where is my nerve? Where is my horn?
1 comment:
Nice musing, Kristi.
Even worse is the passive aggressive, the one who says "no problem," and then forces an innocent bystander off the road.
Speaking the truth in love is a skill learned overnight. It comes with wisdom, and unfortunately, training. I always flunk in training, but every once in awhile I actually "honk" in the right place or at the right time.
Hang in there. Authentic communication is so freeing! Wish I practiced it a bit more often. : )
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