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Years ago, while driving to work on a warm summer day, I saw a large turtle slowly making its way across a busy street.
It was rush hour. This was not going to end well for the turtle.
I pulled my car off to the side, turned on my flashers, and stepped toward my new friend.
It was an Eastern Painted Turtle, about eight inches long. His morning walk had taken him straight into trouble. As the turtle quickly drew his head and legs into his shell, I assured him that what I was about to do sprang from the best of intentions.
I gripped him with both hands and walked toward a large patch of green grass safely beyond the street.
Just as I was about to place him on the ground, he peed on me. We’re talking projectile urination. All down my left pant leg. And into my left shoe, as well.
Really? I stop my car to save your life, and this is the thanks I get?
Note to self: Try not to pick up a turtle that has recently finished a large Slushy.
I do understand. Turtles don’t have a multitude of ways to fight off predators. They don’t have teeth, claws, skunk glands, porcupine quills, or a lion’s roar. They pretty much have to go with the full bladder strategy.
The irony is that everything this turtle knew and loved wasn’t coming to an end. His life was actually being safeguarded from great harm.
Which is pretty much how I respond to God’s attempts to rescue me.
I rebel against God’s gracious interventions. Hey, I was making such excellent progress. What gives you the right to interfere with my plans?
God must be stunned at our fear and incomprehension. When we mindlessly walk into trouble, we treat his efforts to redirect us as unwelcome violations of our freedom.
Thank God for his patience.
He will never surrender his commitment to save us from life’s great dangers, even when there is no assurance we will ever say thank-you. That’s the measure of the depth of his grace.
I won’t give up stopping for turtles, either.
Although I’m definitely considering keeping an extra pair of jeans in the car.