So this is what happened:

I wasn’t paying attention at the moment I needed to brake. Strands of hair fell across my face and danced for my attention. Anguish! No, I would not split my hair! I tucked the strands behind my ear—one small victory. A split-second later, my eyes darted to the left in horror as another car was about to slam into me at the intersection.

I hit the brake and jerked the steering wheel with all my might. I just missed hitting his car, but I was not as fortunate. I smashed into a post. My head hit something hard. My initial thought: “I’m still thinking. I’m still alive.” And the second thought: “I finally got into an accident because of my hair. Lord, I wish I were dead!”

I pulled myself out, with only a few bruises and a thrashing headache. When I saw the mangled mess of my car from outside, I was stunned that I’d been spared.

Being a two-way stop, the crash was fully the result of my trespass. I knew what lay ahead: over-worried family, cold doctor hands, crappy lesson plans, mountains of paperwork, valleys of debt, and malicious teasing from my male friends.

The car I almost hit was very pretty. (I know nothing about cars.) It was a black Mercedes-Benz and it was pretty new with pretty headlights.

The Benz owner speedily approached me. I dreaded a tirade. All I wanted was for him to not be mad at me. As he walked closer, I began pleading on and on, “Are you okay? Are you hurt? I’m so very sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

When he was standing directly in front of me, his hands grabbed my shoulders. He looked me over with what seemed to be the deepest concern. As if he didn’t hear my rambling apologies, he asked, “Where are you hurt?”

I replied, “I’m fine. I’m fine,” and kept on with the apologetic pleas.

He persisted. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

“I know I’m shaking but it’s just the shock. Only my head hurts a little. I really think I’ll be fine.”

We were at a quiet intersection in the farm roads of rural Champaign where there is no cell phone service. He led me to his car. “You need to have a seat.”

I sat in his new Mercedes-Benz, trying to slow down my heart while spewing silent prayers. Even though it wasn’t a cold day, he turned the heat high. The leather chair beneath me toasted up.

He shared about his profession and his lovely baby daughters; all this to help put my thoughts at ease. My shaking subsided eventually. 

"How are you feeling now?” Again, I was touched by the sincere care of his whole presence.

“Much better, thank you. My head’s not pounding as much. I think I’ll be okay really.” I smiled at him to prove my point.

We got out of his car to examine mine. At the sight of the mess, my insides mangled alongside the wreck of rubbish. How am I still alive? Thank you for protecting me.

“So you’re okay?”

“Yes sir. I’m really fortunate. It’s a miracle, thank God.”

Then this is where the absurd happened. He put his hand into the pocket of his sports jacket. I thought he was fishing around for his phone, but instead he pulled out his car keys.

“Here. You take these.” He held out his hand and dropped the keys into mine.

“What do you mean? Why?”

Gesturing to his car, he replied, “It’s yours. I don’t need it. And you can’t drive around in your car anymore.”

“Wait… I’m sorry?”

“You can have my car. To keep. It’s yours. I’ll just take the money you can salvage from your car.”

All sorts of thoughts were tumbling in my mind. “I’m sorry, sir. That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“I want you to have my car. I know it’s not a fair trade but I’m not concerned about that.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to do—” The shape of the keys dug into my palm.

“I just want you to have it. And we’ll tell them that this accident was all my fault.”

There was no arguing with him. He asked me to drive his car back to Champaign to get help immediately. He would stay with the remains of my car which was now his: worthlessness. I drove away dumbfounded in what was now mine: a prize so unfairly traded.

Doesn’t make any sense to you either, right? It's absolutely absurd. How much more confounding is the grace of God. I don’t get it until I truly trust in the one who handed over the key—that he can do whatever he wants and yet is so infinitely good he wants me to have it.

Note: only an allegory that doesn't do justice to GRACE!