My car is fun. I feel like a sixteen-year-old new driver who will pick up a loaf of bread for her mom at the drop of a hat. I'm the girl the Beach Boys sang about in their hit about a T-bird, except that my father is not threatening to take away the keys. 

 

Gradually, the buttons and features are making sense. Recently, the lane assist is my favorite. When there is no traffic, I purposely edge over the line just to feel the wheel nudge me back. I have not the merest idea how it works. Somehow the car senses a yellow stripe and knows I am drifting?  It is as if I have Jiminy Cricket in the passenger seat, acting as a conscience. My daughter tells me there is a name for such shenanigans. Moral hazard is when we lean too heavily on the restraints that are in place to keep us safe. I am not a risk-taker in everyday life. Not like my son who rode his skateboard down cement steps on his high school campus, or my other son who rescued tourists on a zipline in Alaska. If anything, I am kind of a scaredy-cat.

 

In responding to comments on the channel Off the Left Eye, someone recently asked about how we sense messages from angels. I mentioned those subtle influences that show up, like a song running through my head with a comforting message, or an especially stirring moment in nature that calms me. But there is Spiritual Lane Assist too, when I feel pressure not to pile on with complaints, or guidance to express gratitude rather than grumbles. 

 

It is not my experience that God ever grabs the steering wheel outright. Which is why it is still fun, fun, fun.