I'm driving down Schrock Road on my way home from work. I turn left at the light. Not far ahead in front of me are two geese crossing the road. As I approach them, I see they are attempting to escort their six or seven goslings to the other side of the street. A police car is stopped at the corner of a parking lot entrance, watching them. Mama and Papa Goose are violently craning their necks; pumping their ebony heads rapidly up and down and hissing at the Ford Five Hundred and Honda CRV in front of me. These titanic monster-cars have them grossly out-gunned, but Mama and Papa are ready to fight my station wagon to the death. The tiny gaggle of goslings are slowly scurrying towards their parents, except for one who's decided all this street-crossing nonsense is making him tired so he needs to plop in the middle of the lane for a few minutes. I change lanes and slowly pass them. As I'm looking into the goose's intense beady-black gaze, it occurs to me:
We are the geese, fiercely defending our precious essence from the goliath cars life hurls at us as we cross the street. God is the police car; watching, protecting but not interfering with how we react to the monsters in our way.
He knows we will make it to the other side of the road, all the better for having made the journey.
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